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THE 



GOLDEN YASE; 



GIFT FOR THE YOUNG 



HANNAH F. GOULD. 




BOSTON: 

BENJAMIN B. MUSSEY. 

1843. 



5 i7r? 



S" ^' i"^- A 



Entered according to the Act of Congress, in the year 1842, by 
H. F. Gould, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of 
Massachusetts. 



^., t (s 



JVm. A. Hall ^ Co., Printers, 12 Water street. 



PREFACE. 



The many tokens of favor and affection, 
which I have long been receiving from the 
juvenile readers of my poems, have often 
inspired me with a wish to make some 
return for the kind regards of my friends of 
that class, by preparing a book designed 
expressly for their perusal ; in the hope that 
it might contribute alilve to their pleasure 
and profit. 

Such a work I now have the satisfaction 
to present, with my best wishes. 

The Author. 



INTRODUCTION. 



Before you all, my dear young friends, I place 
My new-formed offering of a Golden Vase 
Filled with fresh flowers, which I from far and 

near 
Sought out and plucked ; then culled., to set them 

here. 
They have, at least, the worth of being rare ; 
And may you find them fragrant, bright and fair. 
They come from meadow, hill, and woody wild ; 
But on them, when you each with joy have smiled, 
That will be sunshine, fresher bloom to give. 
Wherewith perennial they thrive and live. 
Among them, from my own small garden-spot, 
I place one little, sweet Forget-me-not. 

H. F, G. 



CONTENTS. 



The Prisoners set Free, 9 

Jennie Lee, 27 

Fanny Spy, 30 

The Bat's Flight by Daylight 33 

The Morning-Glory, 38 

The two Cousins, 42 

The old Cottager and his Cow, 66 

The Good Doll, 68 

Treatment of Horses, 71 

The Broken Basket, 84 

'J'he Firefly, 86 

Blary and the Sparrow, 89 

The Summer has Come, , 94 

The Robin's Song, 97 

Alvah, or the divided Apple, 99 

The Little Flower-Garden, 118 

The White Cottage of the Vale, 121 

The Good Lady Mary, 125 

Something to Fire off, 128 



VIU CONTENTS. 

Escape of the Doves, 157 

Helen's Birthday, 159 

The Little Girls' Fair, 161 

The Shoemaker, 168 

Idle Jack, 170 

Mother-Birds, 173 

Poor old Paul, 179 

The Mountain Minstrel, 181 

The Stove and Grate Setter, 193 

The Ladder Pie, 196 

The Disobedient Skaters, 205 

Garafilia, 207 

The ChUd's Hymn to Spring, 218 

Sabbath School Hymn, 221 

My Little Book's New Year's Wish to its Readers, 223 



THE 



GOLDEN VASE. 



THE PRISONERS SET FREE. 

" That was a dreadful-looking place, where 
the poor man was locked up, wasn't it?" said 
Henry Els worth to his little sisters, as they sat at 
breakfast, the morning following the afternoon 
when they had been out to walk with Mary, the 
nursery-maid, who had obtained leave to call on 
her return, and see her father, an honest but un- 
fortunate man, confined for debt within the cold 
and cheerless walls of a prison. 

" Yes," answered Georgiana, ^' it was a very 
dismal place ; and I felt as if I could weep, to see 
him look so sorrowful, and not be able to move 
a step beyond that great heavy iron door with 
his daughter, when she was coming away. And 
1 



10 THE GOLDEN VASE. 

then he was so pale ! and he had to stay in that 
gloomy room, where the sun does n't come in to 
brighten it, as it does ours ! O ! I thought I 
would freely give all the money in my savings- 
box, if it were enough, to pay them to let him 
out. I wonder how Mary can ever sing to us, 
and tell stories, and look cheerful, as she does 
sometimes, and keep about her work so steadily ! " 

" But Mary is n't always cheerful," said Lucy. 
" I have seen her when she sat sewing in her 
own room, where she thought nobody minded 
her, sob and cry as if her heart would break. 
And once I made out to ask her what was the 
matter, though I could hardly speak ; it grieved 
me so, to see Mary, who is so kind to us, seem 
in trouble, and I not be able to relieve her. But 
just as I thought she was going to tell me, mamma 
rang the bell to call her down ; and she dipped 
her hand into the basin, and putting some cold 
water to her eyes, wiped up her face, and ran 
below, as nimbly as if nothing had been on her 
mind, but her work. But now, since yesterday, 
I know what it was that made her look so sad, 
and weep — she was thinking about her father. 

" If papa was shut up in such a place, I 'm sure 
I could not sing, or play, or feel able to work as 
Mary does. I should weep all the time. But I 
hope that neither papa nor you, when you grow up 



THE PRISONERS SET FREE. 11 

to be a man, will ever have to sleep on straw in 
a prison ! " 

" Georgiana," replied Henry, "you said, you 
wished that your money could get Mr. Allen out 
of jail. Now, perhaps he has done some crime ; 
and in that case, you know, mamma told us the 
other day, that neither the keeper nor any one else 
could let a prisoner out for money — that crimi- 
nals were confined, and some of them executed, 
not because any one wanted pay for what they 
had done, but to prevent their violating the 
rights, or endangering the lives and safety of 
others — and as a punishment for breaking the 
laws ; and to deter others from doing wrong, and 
making themselves and their friends miserable 
by their vices." 

" O ! no, Henry," cried Georglana, raising 
her voice and dropping her spoon, " Mr. Allen 
has done no such thing as a crime ! He is a 
good man, if he is poor. Mary told us all about 
it, when we went to bed. 

" She said that, when she was little, as we are, 
she had every thing she wanted, that was good 
for her, just as we do ; but her father was unfor- 
tunate. 

" He lost his ships at sea, and was deceived 
and defrauded by bad men, on shore. Then, 
those of whom he had purchased goods, or hired 



12 THE GOLDEN VASE. 

money, in honest trade, grew impatient for their 
pay ; and, finally, took away all her father had — 
house, furniture, and every thing ! 

" And though her mother was then so ill, that 
she died very soon after this, of what the doctor 
called consumption, but Mary says, many others 
said that it was the heart-breaking. Yet they 
did n't mind this — they turned them all out of 
house and home. Mary had to get a place for 
her youngest sister in the Female Asylum ; and 
one for an older sister, to live out to wait upon a 
lady. For her father's health failed, and he 
could not provide for his children ; and Mary's 
brother, that I suppose she loved as well as we 
do you, Henry, had to go to sea, as a cabin-boy, 
among those gi'eat rolling, roaring waves that 
swallowed up her father's vessels ; and Mary does 
not know but he will be lost just as they were. 
Poor sailors ! What a hard time they must have, 
tossing about upon the shrouds, and handling 
those great ropes, in the storms ! But, the worst 
of all with Mary's father was, that when his cred- 
itors had done all they could b.esides, to trouble 
him, they put the poor man in prison ; as if they 
thought he had lost his property on purpose ; or 
could earn something, or get his ships up out of 
the sea, to pay them, by staying there ! 

"Instead of depriving Mr. Allen of liberty, 



THE PRISONERS SET FREE. 13 

why did n't they put those dishonest men, who had 
defrauded him, into jail ; and not let them run off 
with money that was not their own, to spend it 
in folly or extravagance ; as Mary says some of 
them did, while her father and his family were 
left to suffer for their crimes ? would n't mamma 
say such things were crimes ? I should think the 
laws ought to take hold of them first." 

" So should I," said Lucy. " But you know, 
father and mother have both told us, that man is 
imperfect in himself, and that the wisest may not 
be altogether wise in what he does, however good 
his intentions may be. And, therefore, the laws 
of the country, being of men's making, are not 
all perfect, like God's law. So, many wicked 
and artful people contrive to wind about in their 
doings, in such a way as to slide by, and escape 
punishment from human laws ; while they greatly 
wrong others, and break the laws of God, by 
doing such things as his commands say, ' thou 
shalt not;' — yet, father said, you know, that 
such people must always carry about within them- 
selves, a continual ])unishment, in a guilty con- 
science, even if they are not found out so as to 
be ashamed among men. This is part of their 
punishment for breaking the law of God, which 
they have to endure alone, and without pity, 
while they live ; and then, when they die, if they 



14 THE GOLDEN VASE. 

have not deeply repented, the worst is to come, 
after all ! " 

" Repented ! " said Henry ; " I should think 
any body would repent, that had such punishment 
as a guilty conscience to bear — and I suppose they 
must all the time feel as if people around them, 
as h were, half knew of their misdeeds, whether 
they do or not." 

" Why," said Lucy, " it is true, I suppose, 
that all guilty people are sorry that they are un- 
happy ; and that they have made themselves so ; 
but, it seems to me, that is something differ- 
ent from repentance for having done wickedly, 
because they still continue to do so ; when, if they 
were sincerely sorry for their guilt, as they ought 
to feel, to be called repentant^ they would leave 
it off. I think they feel what that pale, pleasant- 
looking gentleman from from 1 don't 

remember where, who preached to us the Sab- 
bath before last, called, ' remorse^'' when he was 
speaking about the duellist ; and said, that let 
him go where he would, he must always imagine 
the figure of a murdered man before him ; and 
fancy he hears the call of God to Cain — Where 
is thy brother 7 " 

" O ! Lucy, " said Georgiana, " pray don't 
get upon such horrible things as murder ! I was 
thinking of some other words in the Bible — 



THE PRISONERS SET FREE. 15 

about, ' opening the prison doors ; ' and, ' doing 
to others, as we would have them do to us.' 
Now, do you think those who put Mr. Allen in 
prison, would wish to be put there themselves, if 
they should be so unfortunate as to be deceived 
and robbed of their property ; or lose it by 
storms, or by its being taken in war times, as Mr. 
Allen lost his ? " 

" Poh ! Georgy, " said Lucy, " now it 's my 
turn to say, do rCt. And so, do n't ask me to 
answer such a question as that — we know they 
would n't ; and it seems strange, when they read 
of such pity as Christ felt for those that were 
' sick and in prison, ' that they can put any one 
there on account of his other misfortunes ; if they 
are Christians, it seems so like revenge, and 
spite ; and does not pay the debt, after all. In 
our little books we read about people, away off 
over the sea, who might, perhaps, do such cruel 
things, but they are called heathens, alid don't 
pretend to worship any thing but some earthly 
gods, or idols." 

" Why, Lucy, " cried Henry, " your thoughts 
seem to be flying all over the world ; when we 
were only talking about Mary's father." 

" Well, " replied Lucy, " I am sorry that poor 
Mr. Allen is in prison ; and sorry he 's in debt. 
I suppose it was such things as these, that mamma 



16 THE GOLDEN VASE. 

was thinking of, last winter, when you hadn't 
quite money enough to buy your skates, and 
wanted to borrow nine-pence of Georgy to make 
it out. 

" You know, mamma said, she did not like the 
principle of getting in debt, by borrowing money 
to purchase what we had better do without, than 
to owe for it. For, it was just like any other 
wrong indulgence. It might begin in a very 
small way, but lead on farther and farther, to end 
in great trouble to ourselves and others, however 
sincere our intentions, and fair our prospects 
might be for paying. For, nobody wants to lend 
their money, to lose it, though it may be by mis- 
fortune ; and nobody wants to be shut in prison, 
either. 

" But, do n't you hope something will happen, to 
let Mary's father out } You know we heard papa 
read something in the papers last winter, about 
the people being engaged in making ' laws for 
the relief of poor debtors.' Was 'nt it such cases 
as Mr. Allen's, they meant } I 'm sure I should 
not want to be a debtor to any body, if it gives 
men with bad hearts such power over us, that 
they can take away our liberty, and " — 

Here our little group were cut short in their 
colloquy by Mrs. Elsworth, who, hearing their 
tongues going much faster than their spoons, but 



THE PRISONERS SET FREE. 17 

without knowing the subject of their discussion, 
called to them from an adjacent room : 

" Come, children ! I fear by sitting so long 
over your own breakfast, you have forgotten that 
your birds and squirrel have had none." 

" Poor little things ! so we did," said Henry ; 
" and there they are, shut up so close they can- 
not go out to get any thing for themselves, to 
eat." 

" Henry," said Lucy, who had been several 
minutes looking very thoughtful, "don't you 
think the birds and the squirrel would like to be 
free, as well as Mr. Allen ? You know how the 
other robins and yellow-birds are flying about in 
the sweet open air, on this fine summer morning ; 
and singing their songs so merrily — and I sup- 
pose the squirrels in the fields and woods are 
jumping and running about wherever they please ; 
and have all got their own breakfasts long ago. 

" Now, you remember what mamma said, about 
beginning with little bad deeds — that the habit 
sometimes increased, till it amounted to great 
crimes. And you know she said, it would be just 
so in doing good things ; and one could as easily 
form a fixed habit of doing right, as of doing 
wrong. Suppose you should begin by letting 
your dear little squirrel have his liberty, and 
Georgy and I by opening the bird-cages ? " 



18 -THE GOLDEN VASE» 

" Lucy," replied her brother, " I did not keep 
my little Bonny confined because I was angry 
with him, but because I loved him ; and I take 
great pleasure in seeing him appear happy, and 
shelling his nut, and capering about with his ears 
pricked up, so prettily. He looks on me so 
mildly, with his little bright eyes, as if he thanked 
me for all I do for him. But then, I 'm willing 
to let him out, if you will the birds. And I sup- 
pose neither of them have been here so long as 
to forget how to take care of themselves. For I 
suspect Bonny has not yet forgotten the long 
night he passed in the box-trap of the shaggy- 
headed country-boy, who looked wilder than the 
squirrel that he sold to me. I 'm sure I have n't 
forgotten how that boy stared at us, as we sat in 
the carriage ; and then at the half-dollar that papa 
gave him, as if he had never seen one before. 
And I should think all the clothes he had on, 
never had been worth as much. But when he 
ran into that pitiable hut, close by the road-side, 
where the little starved-looking children huddled 
together around him, and I heard him talking to 
his mother about buying something with it for • 
them to eat, he did not seem to look quite so much 
like a barbarian, to me. Now, I should be sorry 
to let Bonny get out and not find his old fields 
and companions, and get lost, so as to be taken 



THE PRISONERS SET FREE. 19 

again, or caught by the dogs, or have to roam 
about, sohtary. So, as we are going to ride this 
afternoon, I '11 ask papa to drive that way, and 
there we will let my pretty Bonny go, if he 
wants to, if you will do so by the birds." 

" Yes," quickly answered Lucy, " I '11 let mine 
go, for I know he longs to get out, and that he 
would know what to do with his wings, for when 
the other birds come round, from the trees, as he 
hangs by the window, he seems to try to get 
amongst them, and to talk with them as if they 
were old acquaintances. You know he was full 
grown when we had him, and it will not be like 
letting out a poor little thing that was brought 
from another country, or hatched in the cage, 
and could not get its food, or take care of itself 
alone." 

" And my robin shall go, too," cried Georgiana ; 
" for its mother, or some of its relations, come 
round every day, and sing to it, or go, pip^ pop- 
pop^ till it seems as if it would fly in pieces to go 
through the wires, and get to them. It appears 
to have another nature then, and three times the 
life that it had before. But let's go and hear 
what mamma says about it." 

Then off they ran to make their intentions 
known to their mother, who told them she was 
very glad to find that their long delay over the 



20 THE GOLDEN VASE. 

breakfast-table had produced so good a resolu- 
tion, for every living thing loved its liberty. 
" But, Henry," said she, " I think you might, 
with perfect safety to our garden, and to your 
pretty pet, Bonny, let the squirrel out when your 
sisters do their birds, without waiting till the 
afternoon, and carrying him away. Perhaps he 
would like better to stay about here, where he 
can see you, and you him, occasionally, than to 
go back where the boy caught him. You think 
he has fearful associations with the remembrance 
of the box-trap, and he might be caught and sold 
again, or live in terror, and think of the good 
things he has had here, if you should carry him 
back. If he has only kindness to remember 
from you, he may not incline wholly to forsake 
you, though he does love to be free to take his 
own way, either to linger near his kind young 
master, or to return to his burrow in the woods. 
And you may have the pleasure of seeing him, 
from time to time, which will be doubly pleasant 
when you know it is because he loves you, that 
he comes near, where you can now and then 
throw him a nut, or something else that he loves, 
and see him eat it with a look of gratitude and 
kindness towards you, as an old familiar friend. 

"Besides, my son, how do you know that 
your good intention is sure of being fulfilled, if 



THE PRISONERS SET FREE. 21 

put off till the afternoon, to be executed. So 
many things may occur to prevent your taking 
the ride, that it is uncertain whether you can 
take Bonny out to his old haunts then, or have to 
wait till another day, perhaps another week. 
Then what if your own feelings should change, 
so that you would not be willing to do the good 
act another day or hour, that you would so cheer- 
fully do now ? We do not know our own hearts, 
my child ; and it is dangerous to put off the per- 
formance of what we know to be right, an hour 
after it can be done, lest we should change, even 
if life and every thing around us were not so un- 
certain as they are constantly showing them- 
selves to be. You know that while you and your 
sisters were deliberating about the time when 
you could all best agree to give up your other 
engagements, to go and carry the flowers and 
fruit, that you wished to take to the poor sick 
woman, she was gone beyond all human power 
to do her any good ; she had died, and you 
had lost the opportunity of ministering the com- 
fort, by thinking it could be as well done another 
day. 

" I should let Bonny out on the spot, so that 
all the little captives may escape together. 
Though they have not the gift of speech to make 
the feelings of their hearts known, I have no 



22 THE GOLDEN VASE. 

doubt that they long for freedom, as much as a 
human being in captivity or bondage does. 

"You know the Fourth of July, which you 
and your playmates call Independence day, is a 
time of great rejoicing, and a day of gratitude, 
and of festivity throughout the whole country, 
because it is the anniversary of the day, when we 
were declared to be a free people," — 

" Who ? " asked Lucy, eagerly, breaking the 
thread of her mother's speech. " Who ? Is 
every body in the country free, except those in 
prison ? " 

" I was going," continued her mother, " to 
say, that as you grew older, you would better 
understand, and more highly estimate the true 
value of liberty. It was gained for us, you 
know, by those venerable and patriotic men 
whom you hear called ' revolutionary officers and 
soldiers ; ' and of whom the few that now remain 
are all very old and white-haired, like your 
grandpa, who is one of them. 

" Well, mother," said the persevering Lucy, 
" did not grandpa and the other good men mean 
that every body in the country should be free, if 
they behaved well ? And has not every one a 
right to be so ? " 

" You talking about right ! " said Henry ; 
" what do you know about it, Lucy ? " 



THE PRISONERS SET FREE. 23 

''I don't pretend to know any thing," said 
Lucy ; " and I want mamma to tell me, Henry." 

" How," said Henry, " do you think mamma 
can tell us why every body is n't free ? I think 
she M find it pretty difficult to explain such a 
thing as right to he free^ when it made such 
good men as grandpa and General Washington 
go to war about it, and fire ofi* cannons, and do 
such dangerous things, and suffer so much, as 
grandpa says they did, for it." 

" Ah ! and that 's the very thing that makes it 
easy enough for mamma to decide," said Lucy. 
" If such good men fought, and a great many 
others, such as General Warren, were killed, to 
prove this right, and get their liberty, and set 
every body free " — 

" Come, do n't preach any more, Lucy," said 
Henry. " Come, let 's go ! " 

His sisters, who had stood on tiptoe to be off* 
in the execution of what their little powers 
would enable them to do in the cause of liberty, 
readily joined him ; and away they all flew to 
the cages. 

They fed the pretty tenants well ; and then, 
as Bonny's prison-door sprung open, his young 
master gave him a farewell address, in words 
like these : 



24 THE GOLDEN VASE. 

" Adieu, pretty squirrel ! go where you please, 
If you only will have the thought, 
When danger is near, to run up the trees, 
And never again be caught." 

Lucy's small white hand was, at the same 
moment, on the snap of her cage, and her parting 
charge to her gold-feathered jewel ran thus : 

" Sweet little yellow-bird, take to your wing; 
But you must not go far away j 
Come to the tree in the garden, and sing 
A song to me every day." 

Georgiana's cage was also opened, and her 
valedictory address was as follows : 

" Go, my dear robin ! go build your nest 
In the apple-boughs blossoming nigh; 
There pipe every morning, and show your red breast, 
And your bright little hazel eye." 

Shortly after this scene was closed, the chil- 
dren were on their way to school, where, as they 
met their little playmates, they stated what had 
taken place ; and told them, if they had any 
animal, that was capable of taking care of itself, 
shut up and deprived of liberty, they might de- 
pend on it, that, if they would only let it go free, 
they would experience more real satisfaction 
when it turned round to thank them for liberty. 



THE PRISONERS SET FREE. 25 

and to look its farewell to the prison, than all 
they had known during its captivity. But the 
best of the story is yet to come. 

Not many days after the cages were put away 
in the garret, as useless things, Mary, having 
been out to see her father, came smiling home, 
with a light step, and a face as bright as if she 
had never had to cool her eyes in the water- 
basin ; and, running to find Mrs. Elsworth, told 
her that this was the happiest day of all her life, 
for her father was going to be liberated. 

News had been received of the recovery of 
some foreign claims, in which Mr. Allen would 
come in for a large share, for property that had 
been captured ; and which had, in part, been the 
cause of his present sufferings ; though the disas- 
ters by storms at sea, and fraud in others had, 
for a while, completed his ruin. 

A benevolent friend of Mr. Allen, wishing to 
see him at liberty, without waiting for the actual 
possession of the money soon to come, had 
stepped forward, and rendered himself sponsor 
for the debtor ; and they were now adjusting 
matters for his immediate liberation, which was 
the cause of Mary's joy. 

" 0, how often," said she, " has my dear 
parent cautioned me against distrusting the jus- 
2 



26 THE GOLDEN VASE. 

tice and kindness of the Creator towards his 
creatures ; and assured me that all things might 
fail but the love of God ! Had I kept those pre- 
cepts ever alive in my heart, it would have saved 
me, as it has my father, many an anxious hour. 
It is God alone who has thrown open the prison- 
door, and given liberty to him that was bound. 
Never, as long as I live, will I cease to praise 
and trust in him ! " 



JENNIE LEE. 

How blest is little Jennie Lee, 

In summer's balmy hom's, 
Beneath the broad old shady tree, 

Among the buds and flowers ! 

And not a floweret blooming there. 

Or budding forth to sight, 
Than Jennie is more sweet and fair. 

Or has a heart more light. 

Her cheek is fresh with rosy hue. 
Her forehead lily-white — 

Her eyes like dewy hare-bells blue — 
Her brown hair sunny bright. 

As smiles come round her cherry lip. 
Her dimple's play is such. 

It seems some angel's finger-tip 
Gave here and there a touch. 



28 THE GOLDEN VASE. 

There in her cast-off, light straw hat, 

Lie rose and purple bell, 
Which she has dropped, to turn, and pat, 

And praise her kind Fidel. 

For he, good dog, her faithful friend. 

When she runs out to play, 
Will ever her light steps attend. 

And guard her by the way. 

And her pure heart is always glad, 
When gladness is with him ; 

But if he 's blamed, or sick, or sad, 
Her eye in tears will swim. 

She thinks her pet can understand 
And make her words a law ; 

And when she bids him give a hand. 
He forward puts a paw. 

She tells him not to scare the birds. 
Nor bark, to tease the geese. 

When, quick he takes her sign or words - 
Comes back, and keeps the peace. 

Then down beside her close he lies. 

Her fond caress to seek. 
And looks at her with wishful eyes. 

As if he next would speak. 



JENNIE LEE. 29 

And O ! you must rejoice to see, 

Or hear another tell 
How happy with sweet Jennie Lee 

Is her good friend, Fidel. 

While thus her dog loves her so well, 

'T is very sweet to see 
How rich with her own dear Fidel 

Is little Jennie Lee. 



FANNY SPY. 

Lucy ! Lucy ! come away, 

Never climb for things so high ! 

Do n't you know, the other day, 
What fell out with Fanny Spy ? 

Fanny spied a loaf of cake 
Wisely set above her reach ; 

Yet did Fanny think to make, 
In its tempting side, a breach. 

When she thought the family 
Out of sight and hearing too. 

Quickly to the closet she 
Forth a polished table drew. 

First, she stepped upon a chair ; 

Then, the table ; then, a shelf ; 
Thinking she securely there 

Might, unnoticed, help herself. 



FANNY SPY. 

Then she seized a heavy slice, 
Leaving in the loaf a cleft, 

Wider than a dozen mice. 

Feasted there all night, had left. 

Stepping backward, Fanny slid 
On the table's glossy face. 

Down she came, with dish and lid. 
Silver, glass, and china vase ! 

In from every room they rushed — 
Father, mother, servants, all ; 

Thinking half the closet crushed 
By the racket and the fall. 

Mid the uproar of the house 

Fanny, in her shame and fright. 

Wished herself indeed a mouse. 
But to run and hide from sight. 

Yet was she to learn how vain. 
Weak and worthless is a wish. 

Wishing could not ease her pain. 
Hide her shame, nor mend a dish ! 

There she lay, but could not speak ; 

For a tooth had made a pass 
Through her lip ; and to her cheek 

Clung a piece of shivered glass. 



31 



32 THE GOLDEN VASE. 

From her altered features gushed 
RoUing tears and streaming gore ; 

While, untasted still, and crushed, 
Lay her cake upon the floor. 

Then the doctor hurried in ; 

Fanny at his needle swooned. 
While he held her crimson chin. 

And together stitched the wound. 

Now her face a scar must wear 
Even to her dying day ! 

Questioned how it happened there, 
What can blushing Fanny say ? 



THE BAT'S FLIGHT BY DAYLIGHT. 

A FABLE. 

" O, wad some power the giflie gi'e us 
To see oursels, as ithers see us ; 
It wad frae mony a blunder free us, 

And foolish notion." Burns, 

A Bat one mora from his covert flew 
To show the world what a Bat could do, 
By soaring off on a lofty flight 
In the open day, by the sun's clear light. 
He quite forgot that his eyes were made 
For the twilight dusk, and evening shade ; 
Nor did he think that he had for wings 
But a pair of monstrous, plumeless things ; 
That, more than half like a fish's fin, 
With a warp of bone and a woof of skin, 
Were only fit in the dark to fly, 
In view of a bat's or an owlet's eye. 

He sallied forth from his hidden hole. 
And passed the door of his neighbor, Mole, 



34 



THE GOLDEN VASE. 



Who shrugged, and said, " Of the two so blind 

Thy wisest now remains behind ! " 

But he could not cope with glare of day : 

He lost his sight, and he missed his way ; 

He wheeled on his flapping wings, till, " bump ! " 

His head went, hard on a farm-yard pump. 

Then, stunned and posed, as he met the ground 

A stir and a shout in the yard went round ; 

For its tenants thought they had one come there, 

That seemed not of water, earth or air. 

The Hen, " Cut, cut, cut-dah-cut ! " cried, 
For all to cut at the thing she spied ; 
While the taunting Duck said " Quack ! quack ! 

quack ! " 
As her muddy mouth to the pool went back. 
For something denser than sound, to show 
Her sage disgust, at the quack to throw. 
The old Turk strutted, and gobbled aloud, 
Till he gathered about him a babbling crowd ; 
When each proud neck in the whole doomed 

group 
Was poked with a condescending stoop. 
And a pointing beak, at the prostrate Bat, 
That they eyed askance, as to ask, " What 's 

that ? " 
But none could tell ; and the poults moved off 
In their select circle to leer and scoff. 



THE bat's flight BY DAYLIGHT. 35 

The goslings skulked ; but their wise mamma, 
She hissed and screamed till the Lambs cried, 

" Baa !" 
When up from his straw sprang the gaping calf. 
With a gawky leap and a clammy laugh ; 
He stared — retreated — and off he went 
The wondrous news in his voice to vent, 
That he had discovered a monster there — 
A lird four-footed^ and clothed with hair! 
And had dashed his heel at the sight so odd. 
It looked, he thought, like a heathen god ! 

The scuddling Chicks cried, "Peep, peep, peep ! 
For Boss looks high, but not very deep. 
It is not a fowl ! 't is the worst of things ; 
A low, mean beast, with the use of wings. 
So noiseless round on the air to skim. 
You know not when you are safe from him." 

There stood by some of the bristly tribe. 
Who felt so touched by the peeper's gibe. 
Their backs were up ; for they thought, at least, 
It aimed at them, the low^ mean least : 
And they challenged Chick to her tiny face, 
In their sharp, high notes, and their awful base. 

Then old Chanticleer to his mount withdrew. 
And gave from his rostrum a loud halloo. 



36 THE GOLDEN VASE. 

He sounded his clarion strong and shrill, 
Till he turned all eyes to his height, the hill ; 
When he noised it round with loudest crow. 
That 't was none of the plumed ones brought so 
low. 

And, " Bow, wow, wow ! " went the sentry 
Cur; 
But he soon strolled off in a grave demur. 
When he saw on the wonder, hair like his, 
Two ears, and a kind of doubtful phiz ; 
And he deemed it prudent to pause, and hark 
In silence, for fear that the sight might bark ! 

At last came Puss, with the silent pat. 
To feel the pulse of the quivering Bat, 
That had not, under her tender paw, 
A limb to move nor a breath to draw ; 
Then she called her kit for a mother's gift. 
And stilled its mew with the racy lift. 

When Mole of the awful death was told, 
" Alas ! " cried she, " he had grown too bold — 
Too vain and proud ! Had he only kept. 
Like the humble Mole, in his nest and slept. 
Or worked under ground, where none could see. 
He still might have been alive like me ! " 



THE bat's flight BY DAYLIGHT. 37 

While thus, so early, the poor Bat died, 
A cry, that it was but the fall of pride, 
And signs of mirth, or of scorn, were all 
He had from those who beheld his fall. 
They each could triumph, and each condemn, 
But no kind pity was shown by them. 

And now should we, as a mirror, place 
This story out for the world to face. 
How many, think you, would there perceive 
Likeness to children of Adam and Eve ? 



THE MORNING-GLORY. 

Come here, and set thee down by me ! 
I have a tale I '11 tell to thee ; 
And precious will the moral be, 

Though simple is the story. 
It is about an airy flower, 
With beauty scarce possessed of power 
Its opening to survive an hour — 

A brilliant Morning-Glory. 

'T is common parlance names it thus, 
But 't was a gay convolvulus ; 
Yet we '11 not stop to here discuss 

Its species or its genus. 
We '11 just suppose a blooming vine. 
With many a leaf and bud to shine. 
And curling tendrils thrown to twine. 

And form a bower between us. 

And we '11 suppose a happy boy. 
With face lit up by hope and joy. 
Who thinks that nothing shall destroy 
His vine, his pride and pleasure. 



THE MORNING-GLORY. 39 

Is Standing near, with kindling eye ; 
As if its very look would pry 
The cup apart, therein to spy 
The growing floral treasure. 

And now the petal twisted tight. 
Above the calyx, peers to sight. 
Its apex tipped with purple, bright 

As if the rainbow dyed it. 
While on the air it vacillates. 
Its owner's bosom palpitates 
To see it open, as he waits. 

Impatient, close beside it. 

Another rising sun has thrown 

Its beams upon the vine, and shown 

The splendid Morning-Glory blown ; 

As if some little fairy, 
When early from his couch he went. 
On some ethereal journey bent. 
Had there inverted left his tent 

Of purple, high and airy. 

And many a fair and shining flower. 
As bright as this, adorned the bower. 
Displayed like jewels, in an hour. 
Where'er the vine was clinging. 



40 THE GOLDEN VASE. 

As each corolla lost its twist, 

The zephyr fanned, the sunbeam kissed 

The little vase of amethyst, 

And round it birds were singing. 

And now the little boy comes out 
To see his vine. He gives a shout. 
And laughs, and sings, and jumps about. 

Like one two thirds demented. 
His little playmates, one, two, three, 
Come round, the beauteous vine to see, 
While each cries, " Give a flower to me, 

And I '11 go off contented ! " 

But, " No," the selfish owner cried. 
And pushed his comrades all aside, 
While walking round his bower with pride, 

" Not one of you shall sever 
A floweret from the stem so gay ; 
I own them, not to give away ! 
I '11 come to see them every day, 

And keep them mine forever ! " 

So, when at noon from school he came, 
To see his vine was first his aim ; 
But O, his feelings who can name, 
As mute he stood and eyed it ? 



THE MORNING-GLORY. 41 

For not a flower could he behold, 
While each corolla, inward rolled, 
Appeared as shriveled, dead, and old, 
As if a fire had dried it. 

" Alas ! " the selfish owner said, 

" My glories — O, they all are dead ! 

And all my little friends have fled, 

Aggrieved, for I've abused them. 
They 'II keep away, and but deride 
My sorrow, when they hear my pride 
Is gone ; that quick the treasures died. 

Which rudely I refused them ! " 



THE TWO COUSINS, AND THE LAKE 
AND THE RIVER. 

" Here I come, Frank ! " said Edward Fenton, 
all life and spirits, when he had entered his un- 
cle Newland's house at an early hour, uncerimo- 
niously, and fresh as a morning breeze ; and 
running up to his cousin's chamber, announced 
himself before he had reached the door at the 
head of the stairs : — " Here I come." But open- 
ing the door abruptly, and finding no one there, 
where he had expected to see his cousin Frank- 
lin poring over his books, with a look of disap- 
pointment, and the animation of his bright face 
somewhat damped, he threw his eyes around the 
room, crying, " Frank, Frank, where are you?" 

" Je suis au lout de mon Latin ; " said a voice 
from within the closed door behind him, on the 
opposite side of the entry. He turned quickly ; 
and springing across the passage, snapped the 
latch, and burst in upon his cousin, who, with a 
pile of books on a chair beside him, and one 
open in his hand, sat near the only window in 



THE TWO COUSINS, ETC. 43 

a small back chamber devoted to the uses of a 
garret. Here was seen a paper, or a shingle 
with seeds spread out, and there, a bundle of 
herbs hung up, to dry. The only window, 
through which they received air and light, looked 
on the garden, back-door yard, wood -house, hen- 
coop, and other such appurtenances as belonged 
to the rear-ground of a neighbor's house that stood 
on the next street. 

" Halloo ! " cried he, " what brought you out 
of your own pleasant front room, into this cran- 
ny ? Did you come to be dried with the seeds ? 
or to emlalm yourself with herbs ? Let me see 
— here 's lalm for that use — here 's sage^ to 
make you more so — and mint — but not a mint 
of money, Frank. And I 'm afraid you 'II never 
find one ; if you 're always going to keep your- 
self shut up, silent and close, as the kernel in a 
nut-shell. But, what did you say to me, through 
the door, when I asked where you were } " 

" I said," replied Frankhn, " ' Je suis an hout 
de mon Latin.'' " 

" Come now, Mr. Polyglott," said Edward, 
ironically, interrupting him, "Why don't you 
speak plain English ; and not jabber French, as 
if your own language had n't words enough to tell 
where you are, when you are only out of your own 
room, and become king of the secret repository of 



44 THE GOLDEN VASE. 

herbs and squash-seeds ? But tell me what you 
said." 

" I said, just what the French do in their prov- 
erb, when they are posed, or puzzled ; or, as we 
say, ' give up,' " said Franklin, " ' I am at the end 
of my Latin.' And so I am, or shall be soon, at 
this rate — with so many noises of all sorts and 
on all sides — I can 't study ; and the vacation is 
almost up. I shall have to go back to the acad- 
emy without knowing any more than I did when 
I came home. Every body in the street goes 
sounding along — some talking loud to one 
another about their own private affairs, as if they 
were criers publishing a sale ; and others tramp 
on the side walk, like elephants. Then comes 
the baker's gingling bells — then old Sowdy, 
blowing his fish-hprn ; then the hackman, the 
truckman and the teamster ; one cracking his 
whip, one with his clattering drays, and the oth- 
er crying, ' Gee — /mtf?,' and " — 

" Well, do n't you want bread, and flour, and 
wood ; and that the work of the world should go 
on, coz ? " said Edward. " Do n't you feel as if 
you could take a little of that fresh mackerel that 
Patty had on the gridiron, when I came in, if I 
do n't mistake odors, and with it a piece of warm 
roll, for breakfast ? Come, Franky, I want you 
to put by your books, and go with us for a good 



THE TAVO COUSINS, ETC. 45 

sport and a picnic. It's a splendid day for it; 
the vacation is almost out, and this is our last 
chance. The other boys are all getting ready ; 
there's Harry Fletcher, and George Whiting, 
and Isaac Bowers, and a whole knot of 'em go- 
ing. We mean to have one good frolic in the 
woods and fields. We can fish in the brook just 
this side the woods ; and then, there 's the place 
for water-lilies — and O, we can do every thing 
— we can be Indians, or bears, or gipsies, or 
whatever we please. And there 's plenty of 
berries, and every thing that 's good and wild ! 
Come, Frank, will you go? You'll feel the 
better for a good rousing up. Don't stay moping 
here. I 'm for a good stir, and a frolic. I shall 
study hard enough at school, as well as you ; for 
I mean to have geography, and mathematics, 
and then study navigation ; so that I can go to 
sea, and be captain, and see the world. I do n't 
care about so many tongues, Frank. I should not 
like studying the roots of tongues, or botany, or 
herbs and seeds." 

"Why, Eddy," said Franklin, "you're talk- 
ing straight against yourself. If you go to sea, 
you can't know too many languages. And 
you '11 never have a better time in your life to 
study, than now. And then, sailors need to 
know something of botany. Don't you know 



46 THE GOLDEN VASE. 

how a sailor, having learnt one thing about a 
plant, saved part of a ship's crew, once ? " 

" O, that 's a likely story, and as true now as 
ever it was," said Edward, laughing. " But how 
was it, Frank ? " 

"So it is as true now as ever ; for it was true at 
first,'" said Frank ; "and if you '11 be still laugh- 
ing, I '11 tell you about it, and let you see that 
you need not fear getting too much knowledge, 
even of so little things as herls. Every thing 
we learn about nature may come in use. Some 
plants, you know, are natives of dry soil, and 
some of wet ; some live partly in the water, and 
others wholly out of it " — 

" Come, do n't keep me waiting so long for the 
story ! " said Edward, impatiently. " Just tell 
me, at once, v/hat you mean by that marvellous 
work of a sailor's knowledge about an herb." 

" Well," said Frank, " if you are to be so 
very wise in geography, and to go to sea, you 
know, or it's time you did, where the English 
Channel is, and that a great and dangerous mass 
of rocks, or, a chalk-cliff ending a headland, is 
there, called Beachy Head. In a violent storm, 
in the autumn of 1831, a vessel was passing 
through this channel in the night. It was very 
dark, and the lightning flashed awfully. The 
wind and waves were furious, and the vessel 



THE TWO COUSINS, ETC. 47 

was dashed ashore, and wrecked on the rocks 
near this great bluff. All the crew were washed 
into the waters, and all lost but four, who were 
cast upon the rocks by the waves. 

" They climbed, as well as they could, amid 
the darkness. But as fast as they made their 
way up, the waves came furious after them, 
sending spray forward over their heads ; till, 
weary with their efforts, and thinking it in vain 
to climb, as it seemed as if the sea would soon 
cover the whole rock, they began to think it 
would be better to throw themselves into the 
water, and try to swim to a safer place, or trust 
to the mercy of the sea to cast them up on shore. 
But if it did not do this, it would only give them 
a speedy death, instead of a lingering one. Just 
as they were forming this resolution, one of 
them, in laying hold of another rocky point, 
fastened his grasp on a plant, which broke from 
the rock, and came up in his hand. When the 
next flash of lightning came, he saw it was a 
root of the rock-samphire ; in botanical language, 
(if you will allow my use of it, Eddy,) the crith- 
mum maritimum.'''' 

" A grand thing that, to hold on by, to save a 
man's life ! " cried Edward. " A plant that 
came up, root and all, at the first touch. A fine 
rope to hold by ! You are hoaxing me, Frank, 



48 THE GOLDEN VASE. 

with your mwm, mums. What good did that 
weed do a company of drowning sailors ? " 

" Will you let me tell you, without breaking 
in again ? " said Frank ; and he continued. 
" The sailor knew that this plant, though always 
growing close to the sea, so, as you may say, as 
to live upon the sea-air, and often to have the 
water come up to its root, is yet 7iever entirely 
covered by it. He knew it was of such a nature 
as to be considered a sort of boundary-mark 
between decided land and sea, wherever it grows. 
This was like an olive-branch, says the book 
that I read it in, to the poor sailors. They now 
felt themselves so high as to be out of danger ; 
and waited till morning, when they were seen by 
people on a higher part of the cliff, and taken 
into safety." 

" Why, Frank, you do get something out of 
your books, do n't you ? " said Edward, while 
bent on his good time, and picnic, he continued 
to urge his suit. " Come, say you '11 go, coz." 

" I want to get through this, first," said Frank, 
taking several leaves of his open Latin book be- 
tween his thumb and finger. " I should have 
done it long ago, if I could shut and open my 
ears at pleasure, as I can my eyes. But I had 
no sooner left my room to escape from the street 
noise, and come in to this hiding-place, where I 



THE TWO COUSINS, ETC. 49 

hoped to be quiet, than, just as I opened the win- 
dow for air enough to breathe, out came Aunt 
Rushy, as they call her, from Mr. Gorham's 
back-door, driving about, ordering Peter this 
way, and Polly that ; calling the hens, chastising 
the dog, preaching to the cat, and lecturing the 
parrot for making noise, with her own shrill 
voice sounding from street to street." 

" Aunt Rushy ? " said Edward, " and who on 
earth is she ? " 

" She 's somebody that's been on it so long," 
replied Frank, " she appears as if she had as 
much right to command as Alexander ; and that 
her voice was to control the #orld. But she 's a 
little old woman under a great cap, with her face 
all puckered by the habit of indulging sour feel- 
ings ; and her gown tucked up under her apron- 
strings on each hip, as she goes trotting about, 
and fretting at somebody or something at every 
turn. She 's aunt, or great aunt to Mr. Gorham, 
and all his family. They all call her, Aunt 
Rushy, and let her take her own way ; for she 's 
so deaf she could n't hear if they should say any 
thing like asking her to let things be. She can 't 
hear her own voice, any more than a trumpet 
can its own ; but she seems to think her will and 
whims the law of the whole establishment 
She ''s factotum there." 



50 



THE GOLDEN VASE. 



" O," said Edward, " do n't have over any 
more totums, nor feel as if you must put some- 
thing foreign into every sentence. It sounds 
pedantic, Frank." 

" I should n't Hke to be thought a pedant, of 
all things," said Frank. " Pedantry is very dis- 
gusting to any one, who knows enough to detect 
it. But really, Ned, I have been so annoyed, 
that I spoke out in the readiest and shortest 
terms, and being engaged with French and 
Latin, they came first. That's the way, I sup- 
pose, that a great many who are studying, get the 
charge of being pedantic — using foreign words 
instead of their own, while they think nothing of 
how it sounds to others, in the habit of hearing 
only plain old English. I 'm glad of this hint, 
coz, and shall remember how it sounded to be 
called pedantic, in the herb-room.^ for the first 
time in my life. But now, about the nut-kernel, 
and the silkworm, that's another concern. If 
all the nuts were cracked, how would what is in 
one ever grow into a tree ? If the silkworm had 
not shut itself up, how could my cousin Edward 
Fenton have come out this morning, looking so 
spruce, with that nice ribbon at his collar, and in 
his shoes ? And as to the study of herbs, you 
did not think the doctor knew too much about 



THE TWO COUSINS, ETC. 51 

their qualities, when you were so sick, and 
needed tea, and a bath made of them." 

" Really, Mr. Philosopher ! you go quite pro- 
foundly into speculations. If you have so much 
gravity^ when I 'm captain, and go to sea, I shall 
want to ship you for ballast," said Edward, 
laughing, " if the wind and waves are not too 
noisy for you." 

" I '11 go," replied Frank, returning the laugh, 
" if you will promise not to be too often for 
making a hreeze^ or an artificial storm without 
the method of the Esj)!) system. But since you 
bring the silkworm and the sea so near together, 
did you ever hear about the Silkicorm uf the 
Sea 7 " 

" No," replied Edward. " What is it ? " 

" I will tell you, if you can keep quiet long 
enough to hear," replied Frank. 

" I will, Frank, if you will tell it without 
having any of your turns thrown in. But what is 
it } " said Edward. 

" The Pinna," said Frank, " is of a mollusca 
tribe, of two " — 

" What is mollusca 1 " asked Edward, ab- 
ruptly breaking Frank's speech. 

" The mollusca tribes," said Frank, " are those 
soft animals that have no frames, that is, no 
skeletons within, and no jointed covering outside. 



52 THE GOLDEN VASE. 

But you '11 understand better, perhaps, if I read 
the description from this little book. I 've never 
known the curious animal before this morning, 
when I saw this picture ; look here. See how 
they are fishing it up. It looks like the back 
side of a head of hair coming up out of the water, 
does n't it ? " He then read from a new and 
beautiful little English volume,* the following 
scrap of natural history. 

THE SILKWORM OF THE SEA. 

With these creatures — the silkworms — must 
be associated one living beneath the surface of 
the sea, and of humble rank, yet, in various 
points of view, of great interest. 

The Pinna, one of the mollusca tribes, with 
two shells, is generally found at a small distance 
from the shore of the Mediterranean, Indian, 
American, Atlantic, and European oceans ; as 
well as in the Adriatic and Red seas, and seldom 
on bold and rocky coasts, exposed to the furious 
assaults of the tide. It has been elegantly 
termed, " The Silkworm of the Sea," from its 
spinning a fine silky beard, by which it firmly 

* As this book is not common, and may not be accessi- 
ble to many of my young readers, they will excuse me 
for making this large extract. 



THE TWO COUSINS, ETC. 53 

moors itself to the sand, gravel, roots of marine 
plants, or, in fact, to any other matter within its 
reach. 

The animal is provided with a kind of tubu- 
lar instrument, having a gland which secretes a 
glutinous substance ; and by means of slight 
pressure, a drop of it falls on the spot to which 
the byssus, as the beard is called, is to be at- 
tached. Its singular organ, however, which, in 
shape, resembles a tongue, and therefore fre- 
quently bears that name, answers different pur- 
poses ; for, whenever the creature wishes to 
change its place, it serves to drag the body for- 
ward, and may therefore be called a leg. For, 
being fixed to some solid body, and then, contract- 
ed in its length, the animal is necessarily drawn 
to the spot where it has fixed itself, and, repeat- 
ing the movement, arrives ultimately at its desti- 
nation. 

But its principal use is in spinning the threads 
of the byssus ; for it becomes cylindrical at the 
base or root, and has a canal running through 
its entire length, as a passage for the substance 
of which they are made, and also for moulding 
them into the proper form. Accordingly, when 
the first drop is placed on the chosen spot, this 
organ is retracted : thus a silken filament is drawn 
out, and the operation being continued some thou- 



54 THE GOLDEN VASE. 

sands of times, a beautiful tuft of silky fibres is 
produced. The natural color is a rich golden- 
brown, which readily receives any tint. 

Paley, when describing the operations of the 
silkworm, justly compares them to the process of 
wire-drawing, — in which the substance required 
is produced by its being drawn through a plate 
of steel containing holes that have been made, 
that it may be reduced to its proper shape and 
size ; and, in a similar way, the pinna acts. One 
difference only appears. The wire is the metal 
unaltered, except in figure : whereas, in the form- 
ing of the thread, the nature as well as the form 
of the substance is somewhat changed ; for while 
in the animal, whether it be indeed an insect 
or a moUusk, it is merely a soft and clammy 
glue, yet it acquires firmness and tenacity on its 
exposure to the air. 

On the coasts of Sardinia and Corsica, the pin- 
nae are in great request for the sake of the bys- 
sus ; and are fished up with a curious instrument. 
It consists of two semicircular bars of iron fas- 
tened together at each end, but three inches dis- 
tant from each other at the centre ; having at 
one end, a hollow handle in which a pole is 
fixed ; and, at the other, a ring, to which a cord 
is fastened. 

On a pinna being discovered, the iron is let 



THE TWO COUSINS, ETC. 55 

down slowly over the shell, which is then twisted 
round and drawn out. Notwithstanding the ex- 
treme delicacy of the individual threads, they form 
frequently so compact a tuft, that considerable 
strength is required to separate the shells from 
the rocks to which they adhere. 

When a sufficient number have been caught, 
the silk is cut off, and after being soaked twice 
in tepid water, and once in soap and water, it is 
spread out to dry in some cool and shady place. 
It is again softly rubbed, and separated with the 
hand, while it is yet moist, and then spread out 
again. When quite free from moisture, it is 
drawn through a comb with the teeth wide 
apart, and afterwards through a similar instru- 
ment with finer and closer teeth. The silk in- 
tended for finer works, is afterwards drawn 
through closer iron combs or cards. 

When it is spun, two or three of the threads are 
mixed with one of real silk ; and the web, being of 
a beautiful yellow-brown, resembles, when steep- 
ed in lemon juice, and afterwards pressed with a 
warm iron, the burnished golden hue on the backs 
of some splendid flies and beetles. 

The threads of the pinna were wrought into 
gloves and other articles of dress, in very early 
times ; and a robe, presented by one of the Ro- 
man emperors to the satraps of Armenia, was 



56 THE GOLDEN VASE. 

probably made of this material. Several beauti- 
ful things are also made of them at Palermo. 

The delicacy of the thread, however, is such, 
that a pair of stockings made of it may be con- 
tained in a snufF-box of ordinary size. Some 
stockings of this silk were presented, in 1754, to 
Pope Benedict XIV ; and, though so very jfine, 
protected the legs alike from cold and heat. In 
gouty and rheumatic cases, stockings and gloves 
of this material are still deemed useful ; but it is 
not seen in England, except in the cabinets of the 
curious. 

In reference to the productions of these crea- 
tures, it was well said by the earl of Shaftes- 
bury, — " How shining, strong, and lasting are 
the subtle threads spun from their artful mouths ! 
Who beside the All-wise, has taught them to com- 
pose the beautiful soft shells, in which, recluse 
and buried, yet still alive, they form those beau- 
tiful threads, when not destroyed by men, who 
clothe and adorn themselves with the labor of 
these sweet creatures, and are proud of wearing 
such inglorious spoils ? " 

Franklin stopped reading, and presenting the 
engraving to Edward, said again, " Look ! see 
how like the back of a child's head, just rising 
from the bath this appears." 



THE TWO COUSINS, ETC. 57 

"I see," replied Edward, "and it is a pretty 
stor}^ about the pinna ; but I do n't wonder at what 
the earl says. It is ' inglorious spoil.,'' when 
the poor little creatures are torn up and killed, 
for their threads, only to gratify such a foolish 
whim of vanity. When I 'm captain, Eddy, if 
I can rule over the sea, as you say aunt Rushy 
does over Mr. Gorham's kitchen concerns, there 
shan't a man go down to fish for such a harm- 
less, busy, needless, little creature, if the pope 
freezes his toes, and has the gout till he learns to 
teach more mercy, and less pride and vanity. 
But come, Frank, let 's go and get ready for the 
picnic." " Then," said Frank, " you would 
have the little creature left to itself in quiet? 
There — there comes aunt Jeriisha. She isn't 
so bad, after all — she 's very quiet now ; but I 
did feel vexed, though it's all over now. If I 
go with you, coz, I shall take my book of botany, 
and " — 

"Never mind about that; only have a good 
basket of eataiJes ; for we shall play till we 
shall want to eat like locusts," said Edward. 

" There '11 be green things enough for us, 

then," said Frank, whose ruffled feelings had 

become quite smoothed down by the silky story 

he had been reading ; and he began to think with 

4 



58 THE GOLDEN VASE. 

pleasure on the rural excursion. "I wonder," 
said he, " if papa is in the library." 

"Yes, he was when I come up," said Edward, 
" and sitting near the door ; so that he started 
me by saying, ' Good morning, sir,' close behind 
me, as I was on the first of these stairs. He 
was looking at some writings." 

Mr. Newland had indeed been in the library, 
and close to the open door, during the conver- 
sation of his son and nephew, and had heard the 
whole. 

The boys went down to see what he said of 
the excursion. He advised their going; and 
told Frank to go and consult his mother ; telling 
him, that he had been selecting a piece for him 
and Edward to speak at school ; and that if his 
mother consented to his going to the picnic, after 
breakfast, while the basket with his part of the 
treat was being put up, he would like to have 
them come back to the library, when his mother 
should be ready to hear, and try the piece. 

The cousins were quite delighted with this 
arrangement, and Edward staid to breakfast. 
After it was over, they withdrew to the library. 

" Franklin, my son," said Mr. Newland, " I 
am very glad of this intended excursion. It will 
do you good, I think, as to the health alike of body 
and mind. I perceive they are both somewhat 



THE TWO COUSINS, ETC. 59 

out of tune, and only want a little regulating 
and refreshment. Your close application to study 
has made you too sensitive, and impatient of the 
least sound or motion that others must unavoida- 
bly make in pursuing their own round of duties. 
Now, go and play hard as you please all day ; 
and get as many flowers, and fossils, with berries, 
and other curiosities that you find in the fields 
and wooded wild, as you can. When you get 
as great a load as you can bear to the roadside, 
perhaps you will have a lift given you to convey 
them home. Your uncle and aunt, and your 
mother and I think of a ride this afternoon. We 
shall, in returning, take the route that leads by 
the woods about the time when you will be 
homeward bound. We can take your gatherings 
and your baskets into the carriage ; and, thus re- 
lieved of them, you will be able to assist your 
friends in bringing theirs ; as we should not like 
to have you leave your company, to ride home 
yourselves, imless something more than feeling 
tired is the matter. It will do you good to have 
a true rural exercise in the sweet wood-land 
air. Get well tired, and to-night you will sleep 
as hard as you have played. Then, in the 
morning, you will rise in better humor to take up 
your studies ; and not have to catch up your books 
and fly out of your own room into another, be- 



60 THE GOLDEN VASE. 

cause you cannot command silence in the street ; 
nor make the laborers, who are going forth in 
haste to their work, carrying implements, per- 
haps, manage their feet as if they were created 
for no better purpose than to figure lightly in the 
cotillon or quadrille. 

"The kind old lady, too, who treats you with 
cake and fruit, or nuts, when you go into Mr. 
Gorham's, Mrs. Dennison, whom, in a familiar 
way, they sometimes call by her given name, 
' aunt Jerusha^'' she may be saved some phil- 
ipics " — 

" What is a philippic ? papa," said Frank, seiz- 
ing the first opportunity to turn the current of the 
lecture, which, though he knew it to be just, he 
felt coming rather hard upon him. 

" It is an acrimonious invective, a bitter sar- 
casm, a keen stroke of censure," said Mr. 
Newland ; " and it takes its name from the 
speeches of this nature, which Demosthenes, the 
famous Athenian orator and statesman, directed 
against Philip, king of Macedon, and father of the 
great commander, whose name I heard pro- 
nounced in a recent dialogue. It sounded unu- 
sually grand, issuing, as it did, from so small and 
retired a corner as the herb-room. I heard, as I 
could not avoid doing, unless I, too, had ears to 
open and shut at pleasure, or the misfortune to be 



THE TWO COUSINS, ETC. 61 

deaf, like poor Mrs. Dennison, the whole of your 
conversation with Edward, while sitting near that 
open door. And I listened with great pleasure 
to much good argument, and expression of cor- 
rect feeling and judgment. I also heard some 
things that surprised and grieved me. I was 
glad you evinced a desire for knowledge, and 
remembered what you had read, so as to pro- 
duce such interesting illustrations of its use. 
The story of the sailors is quite affecting, and 
shows what small means may be employed by an 
All-wise Providence for a great end. But I was 
grieved to hear your irreverence and sarcasm 
towards Mrs. Dennison. 

" Never, my son, make sport of age, or treat 
its marks and infirmities, be they of body or of 
mind, with levity. It is foolish, it is wicked, to 
do so. You may make the thoughtless laugh, by 
it ; but the best and most sensible people, and 
God himself will frown upon it. He has signal- 
ized the gift of length of days, as a peculiar 
mark of his favor, and the hoary head as a 
crown of glory. You know the story of the 
children at Bethel, who said, ' go up, thou bald 
head.' 

" Mrs. Dennison, I am told, has seen much 
trouble ; and nothing makes wrinkles in the face 
so soon as affliction and care. Thev furrow 



62 THE GOLDEN VASE. 

deeper than age. Affliction, or its traces, should 
be looked on but with respectful tenderness and 
pity. It is not a small trial of temper and firm- 
ness to lose one's hearing. If you should live to 
see me, or your mother, old and wrinkled and 
deaf, how would you feel to see boys making 
sport of us.? Have you ever considered how 
long ago Mrs. Dennison was educated, and how 
different the ways of people were then from 
those of the present day ? Did you ever reflect 
on the deprivations which deaf people suffer 
continually, and of the value of the blessing of 
hearing continued to you ? 

" I was once sitting at the breakfast-table with 
a pious old gentleman, who, at the age of sixty 
years, had lost his hearing by a fall, and who 
had now reached that of eighty, without a 
murmur ever being heard from him on account 
of the affliction. But I realized how he must 
have felt it, when his face kindled up with a 
smile of happiness, and he looked full in mine, 
saying, ' I dreamed, last night, that my hearing 
came to me, and I heard the birds singing just 
as I did twenty years ago. It sounded delight- 
fully ! and I could hear people talking together.' " 

Mr. Newland looked at Frank, and saw a tear 
glistening in his eye, and a heaving at the chest, 
as he broke silence, saying, " I shan't do so any 



THE TWO COUSINS, ETC. 63 

more ! " The poem for rehearsal, before spoken 
of, was then produced ; and the two cousins had 
just time enough, while the picnic stores were in 
preparation, to stand up side by side, and speak 
it from the manuscript, which together they held 
before them ; and, as Mr. Newland thought, a 
little too high, on Frank's side, to give a fair 
view of the expression of his face. 

Frank, in haste to relieve his feelings by 
speaking, and not dreaming what his part con- 
tained, chose that of the quiet water, and began 
the piece. It was called 

THE LAKE AND THE RIVER. 

Lake. River, why dost thou go by, 

Sounding — rushing — sweeping ? 

River. Lake, why dost thou ever lie. 
Listless — idle — sleeping ? 

L. Naught before my power could stand, 

Should I spring to motion. 
R. I go blessing all the land 

From my source to ocean, 

L. I show sun, and stars, and moon, 

On my breast untroubled. 
R. Ay ! and wilt thou not as soon 

Make the storm-clouds doubled ? 

L. River, river, go in peace! 

I'll no more reprove thee, 
R. Lake, from pride and censure cease — 

May no earthquake move thee ! 



64 THE GOLDEN VASE. 

L. la higher Power obey — 

Lying still, I 'm doing ! 
R. I for no allurement stay, 

My great end pursuing. 

L. Speed thee! speed thee, river bright j 

Let not earth oppose thee ! 
/?. Rest thee, lake, with all thy might, 

Where thy hills enclose thee. 

L, River, hence we 're done with strife^, 

Knowing each our duty. 
R. And in loud or silent life, 

Each may shine in beauty. 

Both. While we keep our places thus, 
Adam's sons and daughters. 
Ho ! behold and learn of us, 
Cluick and quiet waters ! 

The recitation was finished with a burst of 
laughter from the speakers, who clearly saw the 
import of the allegory, and they gave off the last 
verse a second time with greater spirit. All 
things being then prepared, they went forth to 
join their company for the picnic. At night, 
they returned as had been premeditated; and 
saying they had had a grand time, but were sat- 
isfied with it ; and so tired they should want no 
more " Indian play and powows " during this 
vacation. Franklin soon settled on his pillow, 



THE TWO COUSINS, ETC. 65 



forgetting all about his books, and the noises that 
had so jarred his nerves in the morning ; and, in 
Edward's bed-chamber, the late sea-captain was 
transformed to the calm, slumbering child. 

But it had been a good and profitable day for 
the two cousins. Edward had been convinced 
that the study of nature is important, but not to 
be pursued with much success, without the aid of 
books made by others, who have gone before us 
in knowledge ; and that the offensive tu7ns and 
mums belong, often, to words of which there is 
no corresponding one in English to tell the 
meaning : it must take a sentence to do this. 
He felt that he should never forget the silkworm 
of the sea. 

Frank had learnt some passages in a most 
important lesson. He had been initiated into the 
secret, that all the languages and science in the 
world cannot make one good or happy, without 
the study of self, and the voice of love to God 
and man speaking in his own heart. 

He began, also, from that day, to realize that 
the world was not made for him alone ; and that 
fretting one's self because others must perform 
their own peculiar purposes and duties, each in 
his own way, is quite as profitable, though not so 
comfortable, as beating the wind. 



THE OLD COTTAGER AND HIS COW. 

My good old cow, 

I scarce know how 
Again we 've wintered over, 

With my scant fare, 

And thine so spare, 
No dainty dish, nor clover. 

We both were old. 

And keen the cold, 
While poorly housed we found us ; 

And by the blast, 

That whistling passed, 
The snows were sifted round us. 

When, many a day. 

Few locks of hay 
Were most thy crib presented, 

A patient cow. 

And kind wast thou. 
And with thy lot contented. 



THE OLD COTTAGER AND HIS COW. 67 

But, though the storms 

Have chilled our forms, 
And we 've been pmched together, 

The dark, blue day 

Is passed away ; 
We 've reached the warm spring weather. 

The bounteous earth 

Is shooting forth 
Her grass and flowerets gaily ; 

And thou canst feed 

Along the mead. 
Where food is springing daily. 

The sweet, fresh breeze 

Through budding trees 
Now fans my temples hoary ; 

And these old eyes 

Find new supplies 
Of light from nature's glory. 

Though poor my cot, 

And low my lot, 
With thee, my richest treasure, 

I take my cup. 

And, looking up. 
Bless Him who gives my measure. 



THE GOOD DOLL. 

Come, sister clear, 

I '11 read you here 
The story of a DoUie, 

Who never strayed. 

Nor disobeyed 
Good rules, by guilt or folly. 

She never cried 

When put aside, 
In bed, or in the cradle ; 

When taken up. 

She broke no cup, 
Nor dropped a spoon, or ladle. 

She never told 

A fib, or rolled 
Her pretty lip in anger ; 

Nor if displeased, 

Felt cross, and teased. 
Or filled the house with clangor. 




TUJi; a'DOT) :i)OUi. 



THE GOOD DOLL. 69 

She never soiled 

Her dress, or spoiled 
Her shoes, their use abusing ; 

Nor did she tear 

Her book, or wear 
Through leaves she was perusing. 

She did not pass 

Before the glass 
Too often, or too vainly, 

As if her worth 

Should be set forth 
In outward beauty, mainly. 

The whole, in short, 

Of Dollie's forte 
Was trust in those to train her, 

Who better knew 

Than she could do. 
Wherein she 'd be a gainer. 

A brother young 

Was found among 
Miss Dollie's near relations, 

Who could, like her, 

Some good infer 
From slightest intimations. 



70 THE GOLDEN VASE. 

But, both were small ; 

So this is all 
Their story gives at present. 

It lets us see 

How each could be 
In aspect, always pleasant. 



TREATMENT OF HORSES. 

" The merciful man is merciful to his beast." 

All men have once been boys ; yet all boys 
may not live to be men. But those who are 
spared to grow up into mature manhood, then 
generally show what sort of boys they were, by 
being good or bad, wise or foolish, kind or cruel 
men. You may not always look in and see how 
they treat their families, or others whose happi- 
ness, peace, or interest is in their power. But 
you may judge pretty correctly of this by their 
more public show of character, especially their 
conduct towards the brute that is subject to them. 

As the straight or crooked sapling, or shoot, 
makes each a tree of like description, so the obe- 
dient and virtuous boy is the early state of the 
man, who will be good, beloved and valuable in 
his social relations, and kind to every living crea- 
ture under his control ; and the disobedient, 
vicious and cruel boy, is that of a man of similar 
character. 

The boy that is cruel to birds, squirrels, in- 



72 THE GOLDEN VASE. 

sects or reptiles, will be seen in his manhood, 
abusing larger animals ; perhaps, his ox or his 
horse ; if not found guilty of crimes for which 
the law must condemn and punish him. 

There is no animal so commonly and constant- 
ly in the service of man, as the noble, generous 
horse. He is said, and justly, to be the most 
noble and useful of all the animals which God 
has subjected to man's dominion. 

The naturalist says of him, " The horse is a 
creature which renounces his being to exist only 
by the will of another, which he knows how to 
anticipate, and even express, and execute by the 
promptitude and exactness of his movements. 
He feels as much as we desire, does only what 
we wish, gives himself up without reserve, and 
refuses nothing ; makes use of all his strength, 
exerts himself beyond it, and even dies the better 
to obey us. " 

It is sad, to add to all these traits of goodness, 
that there is no dominion, which the Almighty 
has given man over the animal tribes, so abused 
as that exercised over the horse. None shows 
such cruel marks of servitude and unkind treat- 
ment. 

It is often painful to witness the hardships and 
severity inflicted on this beautiful and docile ani- 
mal, this faithful servant, even in the public 



TREATMENT OF HORSES. 73 

Streets ; and the marks of abuse which they 
carry about them. 

Men, who are guilty of such inhuman treat- 
ment, little think how they are regarded by the 
good and the merciful, who behold ihem beating 
their horses to make them draor burdens which 
seem heavy enough to draw their bones and 
sinews apart ; or perhaps venting their angry 
passions, by the use of the whip-lash or handle, 
at the poor beast that has come under a new 
master, and does not understand his signs or his 
furious language ; when gentleness and kind 
leading would make him all that is reasonably 
desired. 

I write this to little boys ; and I hope they will 
all remember it, so as to be merciful and kind 
masters to the beasts that serve them, when they 
are men ; and to rebuke those who are not so. 
It is a lovely tribute to pay to the memory of any 
man, to say that he was gentle and kind towards 
the brute creature under him. 

I was at the house of the late Judge Tyng, a 
few months before his decease, when he came 
home to tea, from a walk in the business part of 
the town. 

" As I was coming up Green street, " said he, 
" r saw a truckman beating a poor starved-look- 
ing horse, because he could not start off with 
5 



74 THE GOLDEN VASE. 

what was a double load for any horse. ' How 
much have you for carrying that load ? ' said I. 
He named the price. I took as much from my 
pocket, and said, ' Here, take this, and set down 
half your load, till you can come back and make 
another of it ; for you have on your drays double 
what any horse should be compelled to carry.' 
The fellow took the money, and I was in hopes, 
by making him ashamed in this instance, to teach 
him to use more mercy in future." 

The story of the poor Arab at Saib, though com- 
mon, is yet good enough to be here repeated ; for it 
shows that the treatment, which we too often see 
towards horses, might shock a barbarian, and fill 
him with indignation. 

The whole wealth of a poor Arab of the des- 
ert consisted in a beautiful horse ; while his wife 
children, as well as himself, were in suffering 
want. The French consul, then at Saib, wished to 
purchase the horse for his king, and offered to 
give a high price for him ; even as much as the 
owner would name. 

The Arab soon arrived before the consul, cov- 
ered with tatters, and riding on his high-spirited 
animal. He dismounted. The money was 
counted down — his own price. He looked 
thoughtfully at the tempting prize ; then turning 
a mournful eye towards his horse, he heaved a 



TREATMENT OF HORSES. 75 

sigh, and exclaimed : " To -whom am I going to 
yield thee up ? to Europeans, who will tie thee 
close ; who will beat thee ; who will render thee 
miserable ! Return with me, my beauty ! my 
darling ! my jewel ! and rejoice the hearts of my 
children ! " Then, springing on the back of his 
beloved animal, he was seen in an instant fleeing 
from the money, and galloping off towards his 
tent in the desert. 

In this, the poor Arab has left a good example 
of kindness towards the horse ; and one not less 
worthy to be remembered, of fleeing from temp, 
tation. He would be a good image, thus fleeing 
away, to have impressed on the mind to serve in 
case of temptation of any kind. 

Here is a little poem about a horse. A lady 
leading her little boy near a sad, worn-out-look- 
ing creature, felt such pity, that she stopped, and 
looking on him with compassion, spoke to him ; 
when she thought he seemed to answer her, at 
least by his looks, in the following strains. It 
may be called 

THE LAME HORSE. 

O ! I cannot bring to mind 
When I 've had a look so kind, 
Gentle lady, as thine eye 
Gives me, while I 'm limping by ; 
Then, thy little boy appears 
To regard me but with lears> 



'?6f THE GOLDEN VASE. 

Dost thou think he 'd like to know 
What has brought my state so low ? 

When not half so old as he, 
I was bounding, light and free, 
By my happy mother's side 
Ere my mouth the bit had tried ; 
Or my head had felt the rein 
Drawn, my spirits to restrain. 
But I 'ra now so worn and old, 
Half my sorrows can't be told. 

When my services began, 
How I loved my master, man ! 
I was pampered and caressed, 
Housed, and fed upon the best. 
Many looked with hearts elate 
At my graceful form and gait, 
At my smooth and glossy hair, 
Combed and brushed with daily care. 

Studded trappings then I wore, 
And with pride my master bore — 
Glad his kindness to repay 
In my free, bin silent way. 
Then was found no nimble steed 
That could equal me in speed; 
So untiring and so fleet 
Were these now old, aching feet. 

But my troubles soon drew nigh: 
Less of kindness marked his eye, 
When my strength began to fail, 
And he put me off at sale. 



TREATMENT OF HORSES. 77 

Constant changes were my fate, 
Far too grievous to relate. 
Yet I Ve been, to say the least, 
Mid them all, a patient beast. 

Older, weaker, still I grew : 
Kind attentions all withdrew. 
Little food and less repose ; 
Greater burdens, heavier blows — 
These became my hapless lot, 
Till I sunk upon the spot ! 
This maimed limb beneath me bent 
"With the pain it underwent. 

Now I 'm useless, old and poor, 
They have made my sentence sure; 
And to-morrow is the day 
Set for me to limp away 
To some far, sequestered place. 
There at once to end my race. 
I stood by and heard their plot — 
Soon my woes will be forgot. 

Gentle lady, when I 'm dead 
By the blow upon my head, 
Proving thus my truest friend 
Him, who brings me to my end, 
Wilt thou bid them dig a grave 
For their faithful, patient slave ; 
Then, my mournful story trace. 
Asking mer<?y for my race ? 

But, there is another and brighter side than this 
to the picture of the lives of horses. It is painted 



78 THE GOLDEN VASE. 

from those under the power of masters who have 
grown up from obedient, good, and kind-hearted 
boys; for the tyrannical, fiery-tempered man 
shows that he was never obedient, or had his 
passions subdued, when a child. Yet it is not 
among people of the most polished and fairest 
outside, or in the highest ranks and stations, ex- 
clusively, that we may expect to find the truest 
goodness, and the most compassion and gentle- 
ness of nature. These are ornaments which the 
poorest and humblest may and do possess quite 
as richly as those of the other description. 

Mercy is often set, as a pearl in the shell be- 
fore it is fished up, in the bosom of the man of 
lowly station, artless manners, and rude appear- 
ance. And it will shine forever as a star in his 
crown, which he who says, " Blessed are the 
merciful, for they shall obtain mercy," will give 
him. He is a man, whom God will delight to 
honor. 

One fine, summer afternoon I found myself 
seated in a barouche, drawn by a noble span of 
horses, on board the ferry-boat, crossing the East 
river from New York to Brooklyn. 

The horses, of a light fawn-color, were a pair 
of graceful, lively, clear-eyed beauties, so full of 
spirits, it seemed strange that they could keep 
their animated feet still in their places. You 



TREATMENT OF HORSES. 79 

might have imagined that they had wings some- 
where concealed, ready to spread and fly off 
over the waters. Yet they appeared entirely un- 
checked by the driver, who held the reins, exer- 
cising as little strength as would have come from 
an infant's hand. 

He was a plain, rustic-looking swain, who 
appeared so different from the spruce, dandyish 
coachmen, and those of the hackney, jocky cast, 
which we sometimes see looking so bluff, in the 
cities, I thought he must be fresh from the coun- 
try, perhaps the most rural scenes ; and I had no 
idea that he had any thing like proprietorship in 
so fine and stylish an equipage. 

But he seemed to look with peculiar affection 
and delight, and, as I thought, pride, on his noble 
span of fawns. And he managed them as if he 
had a pair of lambs, or doves, to guide. 

At a short distance from the landing, the friend 
who accompanied me alighted, and went into a 
house to call a lady who was to join us in a drive 
to view the city, while I remained in the carriage. 

The lady was not quite ready. As we had to 
wait a little, thinking it well to fill every moment 
with something, since we may often catch a use- 
ful hint, if no more, in this way, I ventured a 
remark to my civil charioteer, on the subject of 
his horses. I had touched the right spring, and 



80 THE GOLDEN VASE. 

he struck up, like a musical-box, doing all the rest 
himself, in sounding the praises of his beautiful 
beasts. It appeared, that they and the carriage 
were his own undivided possession. By his 
steady industry in the service of others, his econ- 
omy in expenses, turning all his fondness for 
outward appearance from himself to his animals 
and their appendages ; and, with the aid of a 
small sum received as patrimony, he had made 
himself king of this whole establishment. And 
he seemed as happy, as he was gentle and good- 
natured. 

" Are you not too venturesome," said I, " to 
let your horses have the reins so ? " 

" O, no ! " said he, with a smile, and a look of 
gladness. " Why, I could set them off entirely 
alone from City Hall, and tell them where to go, 
and they would come down to the ferry as 
straight and orderly as if I was with them. I 
never fret 'em, and so they don't me. They 
understand me, and do just as I tell 'em to, let it 
be what it will. 

" They agree together, too, better than any 
horses that I know ; they move alike, to a straw ! 
But this off horse is n't the mate to the other, that 
he had first. That one — something seemed to 
be the matter with him, and I found he grew 
sick. He had the (and he named a disease 



TREATMENT OF HORSES. 81 

which I do not remember,) and I had him put 
right aboard a steam-boat, and carried up the 
North river, to where my mother lives, about 
thirty miles off. She 's got a nice little place 
there, close to the river, with a snug green by 
the house, and every thing about to make the 
poor horse comfortable. She nursed him up, 
and took good care of him ; she had eggs given 
to him every day, and fed him as if he 'd been a 
child. At last, he got well of the disease, only 
what settled in his foot, and made him lame." 

"What did you do with him then ? " I asked. 

" O, my mother has him," said he. " She 
wouldn't let any body else drive him round, 
with that lame foot. He feeds about the ground 
there, and comes up and takes things out of my 
mother's hand into his mouth, just like a child. 
She, poor old lady, she 's lame, too, and knows 
how to pity him. She can't walk to meeting. 
She has an old chaise, and the horse carries her 
very well. That he can do without hurting 
him, and my mother gets along very comfortably 
in this way. But she won't let him be hurried 
or abused, I know ; for she 's kind to every thing. 
I was very lucky to find this new one, looking so 
much like him ; and he falls right in to his pace, 
and all his ways." 



82 THE GOLDEN VASE. 

My company were coming from the door, and 
I heard no more of the story of the driver's 
horses, or his mother. I had learnt, in those few 
minutes, the secret of the young man''s easy and 
pleasant management of his free-spirited and 
docile animals, and of his prosperity. He had a 
good mother, and had been a good and obedient 
son ; this made him a kind, good, and readily- 
obeyed master. 

I do not know what was his name, or where 
he may be, if living. This visit of mine to 
Brooklyn was eight or nine years ago. The 
man may have children, into whose little hands 
this story may fall, who will not think it is of 
their father. Should he chance to meet with it 
himself, he will see and own its truth. He will 
remember his lame horse, that carried his lame 
mother to church, where, if we may judge by 
what her son thus unthinkingly disclosed of her 
character, she did not hear the preaching of the 
gospel of peace and mercy in vain. Yet he did 
not know to whom he told the story, nor think of 
its being treasured up in the mind of his hearer, 
to this day, when I am happy to produce it as a 
tribute of respect to the humanity which I, a 
wayfarer, discovered in a stranger towards his 
faithful animals. 



TREATMENT OF HORSES. 83 

It is another proof of what I have before in- 
culcated, that a good boy makes a good man ; 
and, also, that a good master will have good 
servants, be they human or brute, and be respect- 
ed, let his station in life be what it may. 



THE BROKEN BASKET. 

As Ellen — now, Ellen's a sweet little girl, 

An infantine, innocent creature, 
With cheek like the rose-petal, teeth like the pearl. 

And lovely in every feature — 

As Ellen one day, all equipped for a walk. 
Went forth with the nurse from her mother, 

And looked like a bud that was broke from the 
stalk. 
And lodged, in its fall, on another. 

She had not gone far, when she spied on the 
green, 

A bird that she thought had just lighted ; 
The largest and tamest she ever had seen. 

Which seemed neither jealous nor frighted. 

And so, from the hand of her nurse getting free. 
She bounded off nearer, to watch it. 

" O, see what a beautiful creature ! " said she, 
" I guess little Ellen can catch it." 



THE BROKEN BASKET. 85 

Then, running, she stepped on her frock-hem, and 
fell, 

Or, as sometimes we say, made a blunder. 
The bird raised its wings, with a hideous yell. 

Which, capping the fall, nearly stunned her. 

And Ellen, intent upon catching the bird. 
Which she did not yet know by its feather. 

Came down on her neat little basket, and heard 
Its sides crushed, like egg-shells, together. 

The name of this bird may not here be of use ; 

Yet some little querist may ask it ; 
And so I will tell you, 't was chasing a goose, 

That spoiled Ellen's beautiful basket ! 



THE FIREFLY. 

Come here, pretty fly, 
For the night is so damp. 

And the wind is so high, 
It will put out your lamp ! 

Come, do 'nt be so coy. 
Flashing by me with fear ; 

There 's naught to destroy, 
Or to injure you here. 

Like a bright little spark, 
As your 're flying about 

Here and there, in the dark, 
O ! you will get put out. 

Then, come, pretty fly. 
Here 's a shelter for you ; 

Not a blast shall come nigh, 
Nor a drop of the dew. 



THE FIREFLY. 87 

Secure shall you stand, 

Little jewel, and shed 
Your light in my hand. 

When your winglets are spread : — 

Or rest here by me, 

In the pure crystal cup ; 
If you '11 just let me see 

How your light kindles up. 

" Many thanks for your care," 

Said the wise little fly ; 
" But, without dew and air, 

I should soon faint and die. 

" More charms do I find 

In a fresh blade of grass, 
Than appears, to my mind. 

In a whole house of glass. 

" My lamp is not made 

With the poor wasting oil 
For burning to fade. 

Or for dampness to spoil. 

" By a hand that 's unseen. 

It is fashioned and trimmed. 
And this is the screen 

That shall keep it undimmed. 



THE GOLDEN VASE. 

" Secure in that hand 

I can live at my ease, 
And glow, while I 'm fanned 

By the blast and the breeze. 

" I love to be free. 

And to feel the whole world 
Is open to me. 

When my wings are unfurled. 

" From a sweet verdant sod 
Am I raised up at night. 

When the brightness of God 
Lends the firefly her light." 



MARY AND THE SPARROW. 

It was a bright July morning. I was sitting 
with my young friend, Mary, in her summer 
parlor. The windows opened upon the deep 
green grass, that lay beneath them, sparkling 
with the drops of a previous evening-shower, and 
variegated with tufts of flower-shrubs in full 
bloom. Many little birds came flitting about, 
brushing the clover-tops with their wings, and 
lighting on branches so near, that they eyed us 
with a look of confiding friendliness, as if they 
felt strongly inclined to come in with the odor of 
the opening roses, to join our party, and give us 
an air or two of their wild music, to accompany 
Mary's piano-forte. 

" The birds seem very tame," said I. 

" Yes," said Mary ; " I make them so, and win 
them to me, by feeding them, and never giving 
them a fright. I throw out crumbs in the yard, 
every time our table is removed ; and there is a 
whole little family of sparrows, six of them, that 
come regularly three times a day, and feed 
6 



90 THE GOLDEN VASE. 

together close by me, like a brood of tiny brown 
chickens. One of them I knew before I did the 
rest ; and it was this one, I suppose, that led the 
others here, where they have since seemed to 
feel so much at home. 

" One very hot morning I went into the gar- 
den; and as I passed up the walk, close to my 
foot I saw a little sparrow, lying on its back in 
the full glare of the sun, on the burning gravel, 
with its eyes shut, motionless, and apparently 
dead. I took it up to see what had killed it. 
Examining, I felt a faint pulse going on ; so I 
put it in my apron and carried it into the house. 
Father and mother asked what I was going to do 
with that dead bird. I said, ' I 'm going to bring 
it to life.' 'Poh,' said they, 'you can do it no 
good. It is one overcome and killed by the heat. 
You had better throw it away.' I answered, 'I 
will first try.' Then I dipped my finger in a cup 
of cold water, and held it up so that a drop fell 
on the little bird's head ; then another, and a 
third, that slid down on his beak. Pretty soon 
there was a slight motion ; I let a drop fall on 
the point of the beak, when it suddenly opened, 
and took it in ; and the bird opened his eyes. 
He held his beak up, and I dropped in several 
drops — as much as I thought would be good for 
it. My sister's babe, that was asleep near me, 



MARY AND THE SPARROW. 91 

waked ; and I took it out of the cradle, and fold- 
ing its blanket, wrapped the bird in it, and laid it 
on the carpet beside my chair. I sat rocking, 
and singing to the babe, till I pacified it; and 
quite forgot the bird. Suddenly out shot some- 
thing from the blanket, like a dart, close by me ; 
which made me start, as if I had been hit. 
Round and round the room it flew, and into the 
closet it went, scratching and fluttering among 
things there, till it fell behind a box, where I 
caught it — my little dead sparrow come to life ! 
I carried it to the window, and set it on my open 
hand, when, with one spring, tickling my palm 
with its little foot, as it bade me good-by, it was 
oft' on the air in a moment, and away over the 
tops of the buildings, till it was gone far out of 
sight. It was a young bird, and pretty soon it 
came back, or one that I supposed to be the 
same, from the direction in which it flew, with 
others following after it — three more young 
birds, and two old ones. They gathered near the 
spot where I picked him up ; and, by degrees, 
drew nearer the house, where the crumbs are 
thrown out ; since then, as I said, they come daily. 
We look out and see them busy as bees for a 
while, then they fly away and are gone till the 
next meal-time." 

It was but a simple little tale that Mary had 



92 THE GOLDEN VASE. 

been telling, with her own artless, sprightly man- 
ner, and animated countenance ; not thinking of 
setting herself forth, but her bird ; while quite 
other thoughts had been revolving in the mind of 
her listener. Heaven bless thee, dear Mary, 
methought, for thy persevering kindness and care 
towards one of its creatures, so small as that 
young, unwary bird, that had fallen from its first 
flight, and would never have spread its wings 
again, but for thee. If " two sparrows are sold 
for a farthing; and not one of them falleth to the 
ground without thy heavenly Father ; fear not ; 
for thou art indeed of more value than many 
sparrows." Nor, shall thy deeds of humanity 
and pity, though shown in raising the smallest 
living creature of his from suffering, be unobserv- 
ed by his eye ; or, as water spilt upon the ground. 

How many buoyant hearts, and bright young 
geniuses fly off, just plumed, from the nest, on 
the balmy air of life's fresh morning, to faint and 
sink in the heat of its busy, wearisome day ; and 
lie, even before its noon, on the hard earth, to die 
as Aveary birds, for want of some kind hand to 
raise them up, and let fall only one reviving drop 
on the thirsty tongue ! 

And what would become of us, wanderers, 
passing over a dry and burning desert, when the 
wings of our spirits fail, and we sink, did not 



MARY AND THE SPARROW. 93 

some kind angel-minister come, unseen by our 
darkened eyes, and put to the lips of our weary, 
exhausted souls some cool, refreshing drops from 
the only fountain of living waters, whereof, if we 
drink, we shall thirst no more ? 

Go on, my dear young friend, indulging these 
benevolent emotions ever welling up in thy gen- 
erous heart. But do thy deeds for the sake, and 
in the name of Him, who careth for the sparrows : 
and at last it shall be found that it was of thee, 
too, that he said — " Mary hath chosen that good 
part, which cannot be taken away from her." 



THE SUMMER HAS COME. 

The summer has come, 
With the insect's hum, 

And birds that merrily sing ! 
And sweet are the hours, 
With the fruits and flowers 

That summer has come to bring. 

All nature is glad. 

While the earth is clad 
In her brightest and best array ; 

And we with delight 

Our voices unite, 
Our tribute of joy to pay. 

The swallow is out ; 

And she sails about 
In air, for the careless fly ; 

Then she takes a sip 

With her horny lip, 
As she skims where the waters lie. 



THE SUMMER HAS COME. 

And the lamb bounds light 

In his fleece of white ; 
But he does n't know what to think, 

In the streamlet clear 

As he sees appear 
His face, when he stoops to drink. 

For never before 

Has he gamboled o'er 
The summer-dressed, flowery earth ; 

And he skips in play 

As he fain would say, 
'T is a season of feast and mirth. 

And we have to-day 

Been rambling away, 
To gather the flowers most fair 

Which we sat beneath 

An old oak to wreath. 
While fanned by the spicy air. 

When the sun goes down, 

Like a golden crown. 
That 's sliding behind the hill ; 

O, we '11 dance the while 

By his farewell smile, 
And we '11 dance, as the dews distil ! 



95 



96 THE GOLDEN VASE. 

Yes, we '11 dance to-night. 
Where the firefly's light 

Is sparkling among the grass ; 
While we step our tune 
To the silver moon, 

As over the green we pass. 

For summer is sweet ; 

But her joys are fleet — 
We catch them but on the wing. 

Yet never the less 

Would our hearts confess. 
The blessings she comes to bring. 



THE ROBIN'S SONG. 

Hark ! it is the robin's song, 

Coming through the flowery trees ; 

Sweetly does it float along 
Hither, on the bahuy breeze. 

O, that I could only know 

Once, the meaning of the words 

Warbled forth so quick, to go 
To the music of the birds. 

If I had him in my hand. 

Holding down his glossy wings, 

Could I better understand 
What it is the robin sings ? 

Were his tender, downy breast 
Pressing, warm, upon my palm. 

Could I make it feel at rest ? 

Would he then be tame and calm ? 



98 THE GOLDEN VASE. 

No ; upon his native bough 
He is happy, light and free. 

There, to heaven he carols now 
Praises for his liberty. 

Captive, he would only make 

Signs of anguish, sounds of grief. 

Till his little heart would break. 
Mourning, panting for relief. 

He, who formed the feathered lyre. 
Hath the light, unfettered wings 

Made to fan the latent fire 
Kindled in the hidden strings. 

While he holds it high in air. 
To his touch it quick replies ; 

But, if mortal fingers bear 
On its chords, the music dies. 



ALVAH, OR THE DIVIDED APPLE. 

Alvah, a sprightly, kind-hearted little boy, 
somewhere between four and six years old, went 
one summer to make a visit to his aged grand- 
father and other friends, who lived in a pleasant 
village about thirty miles from his home in the 
city. 

With this venerable relative and his household, 
Alvah was ever a welcome guest. His affection- 
ate disposition had deservedly endeared him to 
them ; while his ingenious and playful turn of 
mind made him a source of great amusement to 
the whole family. He was a general favorite 
among them ; and it was alike pleasant to them 
and to him, for him to pass the season with them ; 
where he had spent so great a portion of his 
little life, that he felt himself equally at home 
here and at his father's house. 

As his visits had been for weeks and months 
together, he had a small room set apart for him 
as a play-room. To this he gave the appropriate 
name of his " work-shop," and stored it with a 



100 THE GOLDEN VASE. 

variety of implements and articles, which not 
every work-shop is found to contain. 

Here he used to busy himself in making small 
boxes from pieces of paste-board or shingles ; 
in piling up blocks to make a city ; in inventing 
and constructing miniature machines ; and divers 
other things which his ingenious and ever-active 
mind led him to take in hand. 

He also assumed a great many characters in 
his little sphere. In his room he had a small 
tub of water, on which he sent out his ships to 
sea, when he had got his grandfather to shape 
the hulls, and Martha, the domestic, to rig them. 
On these occasions he was a merchant, and, 
having his head full of foreign names from the 
geography, talked with much importance of the 
countries to which his vessels were bound. 

There was a small closet in his room. On one 
shelf he had a place for his kite, his bat and ball, 
and other playthings ; and on another he laid his 
books, some of which were composed of such 
pieces as had struck his fancy in the waste news- 
papers ; and which he had cut out, and pasted on 
leaves, that he asked his friend Martha to stitch 
together for him. 

Sometimes he assumed the minister ; and, tak- 
ing Martha and his favorite black cat for his con- 
gregation, would mount the window-seat for a 



ALVAH, OR THE DIVIDED APPLE. 101 

pulpit, open one of his little books, for a text, and 
give forth a very amusing sermon with great 
gravity and dignity ; then read off his hymn, and 
sing it himself, like a young robin. 

At other times he was a military character ; 
and with a tin box slung before him, he appeared 
under the double honors of captain and drummer, 
with the chairs drawn out into the middle of the 
room in battle-array, as his company. 

Then he appeared as a chemist, and had all 
the cups and vials he could obtain, filled with 
slops and messes, for which no other name could 
be found. And never was the occupant of a 
laboratory more busy, or more sanguine in his 
projects than Alvah was in his. 

He also became an astronomer, when his 
young spirit grew into a loftier frame, and had 
higher aspirations than could be satisfied with 
the foregoing professions. Then, setting up two 
strips of shingle forked at the top so as to receive 
a cross-piece or a pin, at a short distance apart, 
he put on one a ball of yarn, or something else 
of a globular form ; and on the other, a paper 
star. The one he called the earth moving on its 
axis, and the other the sun shining upon it. For 
he had a curious, inquisitive mind, that must be 
ever doing ; and he often looked into books 
adapted to the study of scholars much older than 



102 THE GOLDEN VASE. 

himself, and seemed to understand their contents. 
If he did not, he at least got his memory supplied 
in this way with a store of words and names 
that came in very aptly in his scientific speeches. 

Besides this establishment within doors, our 
little hero had his department in a small spot of 
ground that lay in front of the house, appropri- 
ated as a flower-garden. 

The lot set apart for him was, of course, very 
short and narrow. But its limited dimensions did 
not prevent the young gardener from sowing it 
with seeds of plants, trees, flowers, and vines, 
enough to fill more than all his grandfather's 
grounds. 

In the few feet of his stinted grant, Alvah 
planted, besides many smaller seeds, the stones 
of a variety of drupes, such as peaches, green- 
gages, cherries, damsons, and other plums ; and 
set down roots of violets, pinks, strawberry-vines, 
and slips of myrtle, box, periwinkle, rose-bush 
and Aaron's-rod. 

One corner of his lot he divided off" as a kitch- 
en-garden ; and planted it with beans, peas, corn, 
cucumbers, melons, &lc. 

Alvah's affectionate feelings had attached 
themselves strongly to his aunt ; and he was in 
turn much beloved by her. It delighted him 
highly, to surprise her by bringing in a bouquet 



ALVAH, OR THE DIVIDED APPLE. 103 

for her from his garden, formed of a violet or 
two, a pink, a daisy, and some small sprig of 
green to make a pretty contrast. In selecting 
and arranging these, he always manifested native 
good taste. The love of flowers was a strong 
principle in his infant heart ; and it is a beauti- 
ful trait in any character, whether in childhood 
or adult age. A poet has called them '' Floral 
Apostles^ " because they so plainly speak to us 
of a God. They are, if we may so speak, his 
lovely and perfect ideas embodied and made vis- 
ible and sweet to us in their inimitable forms and 
odors. 

So fond was Alvah, from his lisping infancy, of 
these beautiful works of nature, that he seemed 
to think that the most precious gift he could make 
to a beloved friend, was some little bright flower. 

When so young as not to be able to speak 
plainly, or to command words to convey his 
thoughts, he would pick the small white buds 
from the syringa-boughs, and, running to his aunt 
with a smiling face, repeat the instruction of his 
parents to him, by saying to her, " You may have 
all these because you were a good boy, and 
did n't ask for them ! " 

Not long after this, his parents went to Europe. 
There they had their likenesses taken in minia- 
ture, and sent home to their friends. It was 



104 THE GOLDEN VASE. 

evening when they were received ; and Alvah 
was waked from a sound sleep to look at them. 

With his soft hazel eyes (which a lady once 
poetically and playfully said, looked " like two 
little souls,") half open, he knew them ; and with- 
out a word from his lips, gave each a kiss, and 
fell back again to his soft slumber. 

In the morning he awoke early ; and when 
fairly washed, combed, and dressed in his smooth 
chintz frock, the first course he took was to the 
flower-garden. Here he snapped off the heads 
of the fresh-blown violets, and holding them in 
the gathered-up skirt of his dress, ran into the 
house, and asked for his " father and mother." 

When the miniatures were given him, he laid 
them, with the back down, on the carpet ; and 
kneeling before them, overspread them with his 
fresh, sweet offering, telling them he had gather- 
ed these flowers so beautiful, on purpose for 
them. 

This might seem like dwelling too long on 
Alvah's love of flowers, were it not illustrative of 
the pure and innocent pleasure which comes to 
us, " without money and without price," through 
that beautiful part of creation, if we have a natu- 
ral and a cultivated taste for them. 

One child sinks his bits of money in cake, 
sweetmeats, or fruits, that, after a momentary 



ALVAH, OR THE DIVIDED APPLE. 105 

gratification of the appetite, settle in his stomach 
to oppress him through the rest of the day ; and 
make him sick ; and alarm and distress his pa- 
rents all night ; sometimes leading to a fatal re- 
sult. 

Another blows his away in crackers, squibs, or 
the use of fire-arms, and many other ways in 
which gunpowder may be made to flash it off*; 
leaving, not unfrequently, no better trace than a 
blinded eye, a scarred face, or a shattered hand, 
perhaps to be amputated, as a memento of the 
short-lived pleasure of indulging a passion for 
sport of the explosive kind. 

A third finds a fair flower in the garden, or per- 
haps a wild one by the way -side, in the field, or 
in the wood. He is in a surprise of delight when 
he first sees it. He plucks it up, as a sweet treas- 
ure, and carries it home to his mother or his sis- 
ter. She furnishes him a vase of water, where 
it may still bloom on through its appointed time ; 
and reminds him who it was that said, " Not Sol- 
omon in all his glory was arrayed like one of 
these." He has enjoyment unmingled with pain 
in considering the flower all the while that it lives. 
And when it withers, he has had it far longer 
than the others did their dear-bought pleasures, 
while his money is reserved for some more use- 



106 THE GOLDEN VASE. 

fill purpose, than buying sickness, or torn faces 
and fingers. 

But this is a long episode. 

In Alvah's little garden, already described, the 
fruit-trees were not very ready to come forth from 
the nuts, or stones, he had planted. Many of the 
seeds, also, prudently remained invisible in iheir 
operations. 

But one kernel of corn shot up its green blades ; 
and a bean peered above ground, with the head 
of the future vine peeping between its sundered 
halves. 

As these living green things increased in height 
and breadth, the joy of their proprietor " grew 
with their growth, and strengthened with their 
strength." In his springing faith, he looked for- 
ward to the day when they should crown his hopes 
with a bountiful harvest. 

It was the year when a fearful malady was 
stalking abroad in the land, which, in some cases, 
was thought to be induced, or decidedly fatal, 
by want of prudence in people as to what they 
ate. This made many deem it wise to abstain 
from fruits and green vegetables, which had be- 
fore furnished a very agreeable and healthful part 
of their board. 

But Alvah told his aunt, that he did not think 
the corn from his stalk would give her sickness ; 



ALVAH, OR THE DIVIDED APPLE. 107 

and that she should have it to boil and eat, as 
soon as it was fit to be plucked. 

From his bean-vine he had also great expecta- 
tions. Not that he had any idea of its imitating 
the fabulous bean-vine of the fairy tale ; of which 
some of my young readers may have heard 
among the old-fashioned nursery-stories, that have, 
many of them, so good a moral as to be contin- 
ued to this day. This fabled bean was probably 
intended as a burlesque on the marvellous, or a 
figure illustrative of aspiring pride and useless 
and fruitless ambition. It was represented, I think, 
as growing up in one night, so as to reach and 
twine itself about the horns of the moon. Of 
course, it was all stalk below the airy regions, 
where, if it bore pods, no one could go up to pick 
them. 

No ; Alvah had no thought or wish that his 
bean should become such a towering thing. He 
only desired it to be a sober, humble kind of vine, 
that would not go gadding in the air beyond the 
reach of its owner ; but be content to stay within 
proper bounds and a reasonable height ; and yield 
its part to the supplies of his grandfather's table. 
For he had heard of vines and other things, so 
much given to straying, or climbing, or idle ex- 
travagancies, that the strength and nourishment 
which should have been turned into solidity and 



108 THE GOLDEN VASE. 

fruit, were wasted in long, vainly-stretching, and 
awkward stalk or stem, of which no use could be 
be made ; unless it were to teach a moral lesson, 
as a check to idle fancy, and roving, undisciplined, 
and unproductive mind. 

Of his favorite black kitten Alvah was no less 
fond, than of his garden. On account of the 
color and glossiness of her coat, he had given 
her the name of Jet. 

Jet never seemed to have an offending paw, 
except when she came too near her young mas- 
ter's garden. Then he would sometimes reprove 
her for an actual crime ; but oftener did he 
caress her, and thank her for her forbearance ; 
telling her she was " very kind," not to scratch 
up his slips, or tear the bean-vine, or roll over 
his violets. 

But it so happened, that, on one occasion, Al- 
vah found Jet making too free with his young 
plants, by boxing their heads, and rolling over 
them. So he thought he would keep her out of 
the enclosure, while he was at work there, by 
fastening her with a cord round her neck, to the 
paling of the door-stoop. He thought she might 
stand, confined in this way, very quietly, just as 
he had seen the cow stand ruminating, while fas- 
tened to the stanchion in the barn. He did not 
stop to consider the difference of character be- 



ALVAH, OR THE DIVIDED APPLE. 109 

tween a cow and a cat ; but reasoned falsely, as 
many do, from similar principles, on subjects of 
more vital importance ; that because they had 
each four feet, they might use them in a like 
sober manner. 

But Jet had no idea of such bondage, as ap- 
propriate to her character and habits. So, off she 
leaped from the stoop, through the paling ; and 
down she swung, and hung dangling, at least two 
feet from the ground ; where she might soon have 
died, had not Alvah's uncle been near, and run 
to her relief. 

Now Alvah, being very fond of digging about 
his ground, would often take, for this purpose, 
the hoe and the spade that were for the large 
garden, and made to be wielded by larger and 
stronger hands than his ; which, puny and deli- 
cate as they were, could not manage such heavy 
implements with perfect safety to the neighbor- 
ing plants. 

His uncle, therefore, had thought proper to 
prohibit his using them ; telling him he was 
making destruction among the valuable things of 
the garden, being quite too small to handle such 
large and heavy utensils as the spade and hoe. 

This did not altogether suit him. It came 
across him in a tender part. He said he did not 
see why he might not use them as well as other 



110 THE GOLDEN VASE. 

people. He had great ideas of his own little 
person ; he could not see himself as he was seen ; 
he did not realize how small he really was. A 
blindness by no means rare in the world ! 

In a small close, near the house, there was 
some new-mown hay brought and spread out to 
dry. It was fine amusement to Alvah to lie 
down and bury himself in it, and then to spring 
up and run, scattering and tossing it in every 
direction where the winds might please to whirl 
it about ; which proved more sport to him than 
profit to the hay. It was found necessary to 
check this rural frolic, also. 

But the denial seemed a double grievance to 
Alvah ; and he began to feel something like re- 
sentment stirring in his heart towards his uncle. 
A great spirit was lodged in his little breast, the 
risings of which, with all his sweetness, he often 
found it difficult to overcome. In his attempts to 
do this, however, he generally succeeded as well 
as most people of maturer age. For certain it 
is, that the longer the spii-it is left unsubdued, the 
more difficult it is to conquer. And if not re- 
strained, when young, it is very apt to prove a 
foe and a torment to its possessor, as well as a 
trouble to others, through life. This idea may 
be illustrated from natural history. 

It is very well known to all, that the crocodile 



ALVAH, OR THE DIVIDED APPLE. Ill 

of the Nile, in Egypt, is a huge amphibious 
animal. These monstrous creatures often come 
on shore for food, and are a terror to all be- 
holders, both human and brute. They would 
soon depopulate the whole land on the borders of 
the stream, if suffered to multiply, as they would 
do in spite of any effort man could employ 
against them. But a little creature of the weasel 
kind, the small ichneumon, only a few inches 
long, does the mighty work of keeping the race 
diminished to a small number. This is the 
shepherd-boy that overcomes the Philistine. This 
minute, but successful enemy, does not attack 
the giant foe in person, or unwarily ; but it slays 
its thousands in an easier way. He, who formed 
the crocodile, so created the ichneumon, that its 
strongest appetite is for the eggs of the former. 

The crocodile deposits its eggs along the banks 
of the river, and the ichneumon hunts them out 
and eats them ; destroying the future monster in 
the shell, as we do the oak in crushing an acorn, 
or the predominance of evil passions and temper; 
by little efforts, when they arc young and tender. 

But to return to Alvah. After the above-named 
prohibitions, with his young bosom all disturbed, 
and out of order towards his uncle, he went one 
day to make a visit at the house of a friend, who 



112 



THE GOLDEN VASE. 



lived near, and whose family were often inviting 
him to come to see them. 

He had not been gone long, when he came 
running home, and hastened up to his aunt's 
room, with his slender, white hands spread out 
to clasp a large apple, whose bright, golden out- 
side beneath the fair, slender fingers spread over 
it, reminded his aunt of what Solomon has said 
of a " word fitly spoken ; " that it is " like ap- 
ples of gold in pictures (or, as the meaning is, a 
net-work) of silver." And soon she had occasion 
to speak a word fitly, in an unusual way. 

The dark eyes of Alvah were sparkling with 
delight, as he ran to her and said, " Look here ! 
look here ! See what Mr. Perkins has given me. 
I did not want to taste it, till I had first asked you 
if I might ; for I heard you and a lady speaking 
the other day about the danger of eating fruit 
in these times. But now, if you are willing that 
I should eat some of it, I 'm going to cut it into 
three parts, one for grandpa, one for you, and 
the other for me." 

" I thank you, Alvah," replied the aunt, " for 
designing a part of your apple for me ; and you 
were a good boy to come home and ask leave to 
eat some of it. But is there no one else for 
whom you intend a part ? " 

"• O, yes," said he ; " Martha is a good girl ; 



ALVAH, OR THE DIVIDED APPLE. 113 

she rigged my ships, and made my kite ; she does 
every thing she can for me. I '11 cut it into four, 
and Martha shall have a quarter ! " 

" Is there no one else with whom you intend 
to share your apple ? " asked the aunt. 

" No ! " said the little fellow, hastily, straight- 
ening himself up in his chair, and throwing back 
his head with a lofty, indignant air ; " no, I shan't 
give uncle any. He would n't let me use the 
spade nor the hoe, nor play with the hay. He 's 
cross, and I don't like him ; and he doesn't like 
me. If he did, he 'd let me use the things in the 
garden. I shan't give liim any of the apple." 

" My dear," said the aunt, " this is something 
quite new, quite different from the disposition 
you usually manifest. If your uncle had really 
injured you, I should hoped that, after all you 
have said about being good, you would have 
readily forgiven him. The Bible teaches us 
that we should return good for evil ; and that 
it is not alone because others have served us, 
that we should do to them, as we would have 
them do towards us. Now, do you feel that you 
are acting by this rule ? " 

Alvah did not reply ; and it was evident that a 
great conflict was going on in his breast, while his 
eyes began to water, and his under lip was now 
suddenly protruded, as by irresistible impulse, 



114 THE GOLDEN VASE. 

then quickly caught back by a nervous twitch 
that seemed to have put it out of its owner's 
control. 

His aunt saw it was the powerful workings of 
a spirit naturally lofty, but habitually gentle and 
docile, greatly disturbed by a sense of imagined 
injury and grievance, and she continued : 

" Our Saviour, you know, taught that we must 
not stop, and be satisfied with merely doing good 
to those, who have unkindly treated us, but we 
must pray for them, too. Now, do you feel 
yourself in a right spirit to do this ? " 

" I will pray for uncle," said Alvah, " but the 
Bible does n't say I must give him my apple.'''' 

" No matter," said the aunt, " what it is that 
you have to give ; if you can first give up your 
will ; if you are willing to do good, and manifest 
a right temper of mind, no matter whether it is a 
slice of an apple, or something that would cost 
you a greater self-denial." 

" Well," said Alvah, with the cloud passing 
slowly from his usually sunny face, " I 'm going 
to cut the apple into five pieces. I shall give 
grandpa one, you one, Martha one ; one I will 
keep ; and I will lay uncle's piece down by his 
plate, on ihe table, so that he may see it, and 
take it when he sits down to tea." 

" That," replied the aunt, '' will not be doing 



ALVAH, OR THE DIVIDED APPLE. 



115 



your work quite right. You know you were 
reading, the other day, where he that ruleth the 
spirit is said to be ' greater than he that taketh a 
city ; ' and you asked what the passage meant. 
You have now a good opportunity to find out its 
meaning by your own experience, young as you 
are. 

" If you feel any thing within you rising up 
against your going and giving a part of the 
apple to your uncle, in the same pleasant manner 
in which you give me mine ; that is the spirit for 
you to rule ; and I advise you to overcome it at 
once. You will ever after be the gainer by this 
one little effort. Go right up to your uncle with 
your gift, and present it as kindly and cheerfully 
as though nothing had happened. Then will you 
know how good and how pleasant it is to feel a 
wrong spirit subdued, and learn wherein true 
greatness consists. 

" Revenge is but poor satisfaction for an in- 
jury, be it real or imaginary. But forgiveness, 
and sacrifice of all resentful feeling, will bring 
back into our own hearts a sure and sweet re- 
ward, 

" Besides, I do not know why you should 
have such a spirit, or entertain any unkind 
feelings towards your uncle, or suspect him of 
having such towards you ; even if such senti- 



116 THE GOLDEN VASE. 

ments were not expressly forbidden by Him 
against whom we are constantly sinning ; and 
whose forgiveness we need all the days of our 
lives. 

" But your uncle has not injured you, or any 
thing that is yours. He has ever been obliging 
and kind to you, where your best interest was 
concerned ; and where he could promote your 
enjoyment without injuring any valuable thing, 
or indulging you to your hurt, he has gladly done 
it. He even saved the life of your favorite Jet, 
the other day ; when, but for him, you would 
have come and found her dead, where you had 
tied her. You have mistaken his motives alto- 
gether ; and the sooner you get over these sus- 
picious and angry feelings, the happier you will 
find yourself. 

" Then, are not the hoe and the spade your 
uncle's ? are they not his own ? and had he not 
a right to withhold them, when he saw you did 
not have power to manage them ? and is he not 
older than you ? should you not trust his judg- 
ment ? " 

During this long sermon it was evident that a 
great change for the better was in progress in 
the bosom of the young auditor. His features 
became relaxed, and the sunshine rapidly return- 
ed to his expressive countenance. He sprang 



ALVAH, OR THE DIVIDED APPLE. 117 

up, and running down stairs, called to Martha to 
give him a knife. He was gone but a few min- 
utes, when he returned with a smiling face, hold- 
ing out two fifths of the apple, for his aunt to 
take one. 

" I went," said he, " to uncle, and gave him a 
piece, and now I 'm glad I did it." 

" Well, then," said the aunt, " I suppose you 
understand the meaning of that text of Scripture." 

"Yes," — said he, cutting short his reply by 
placing the slice of apple between his smiling 
lips. 

From that moment it was evident that he had 
gained an important victory. He was cheerful, 
mild and happy ; and evinced a sweeter temper 
towards his uncle, than he had before done since 
the affair of the hoe and the spade. He will, no 
doubt, through his future life, be a gainer by this 
little effectual struggle. It was the ichneumon, 
which, if it could not destroy the old crocodile, 
at least deprived it of posterity. 



THE LITTLE FLOWER-GARDEN. 

In yon old village buiying-place, 
With briars and weeds o'ergrown, 

I saw a child with beauteous face 
Sit musing all alone. 

Without a shoe, without a hat, 

Beside a new-raised mound, 
The little Willie pensive sat, 

As if to guard the ground. 

I asked him why he lingered thus, 

Within that gray old wall. 
" Because," said he, " it is to us 

The dearest place of all." 

" And what," said I, " to one so young. 
Can make the place so dear ? " 

" Our mother ! " — said the lisping tongue, 
" They laid our mother here. 



THE LITTLE FLOWER-GARDEN. 119 

" And since they made it mother's lot, 

We like to call it ours : 
We took it for our garden-spot, 

And planted it with flowers. 

" We know 't was here that she was laid ; 

And yet they tell us, too. 
She 's now a happy angel made 

To live where angels do. 

" Then she will watch us from above, 

And smile on us, to know 
That here her little children love 

To make sweet flowerets grow. 

" My sister Anna's gone to take 

Her supper, and will come. 
With quickest haste that she can make. 

To let me run for some. 

" We do not leave the spot alone, 

For fear the birds will spy 
The places where the seeds were sown. 

And catch them up, and fly, 

" We love to have them come and feed, 

And sing, and flit about ; 
Yet, not where we have dropped the seed. 

To find and pick it out. 



120 THE GOLDEN VASE. 

" But now the great, round, yellow sun 

Is going down the west ; 
And soon the bh'ds will every one 

Be home, and in the nest. 

" Then we to rest shall go home too ; 

And while we 're fast asleep. 
Amid the darkness and the dew, 

Perhaps the sprouts will peep. 

" And when our plants have grown so high 

That leaves are on the stem. 
We '11 call the pretty birdies nigh, 

And scatter crumbs for them. 

" For mother loved their songs to hear. 

To watch them on the wing : 
She '11 love to know they still come near 

Her little ones, and sing." 

" Heaven shield thee, precious child ! " me- 
thought, 

" And ' sister Anna,' too ; 
And may your future days be fraught 

With blessings ever new ! " 



THE WHITE COTTAGE OF THE VALE. 

Come here, my dear Loui, and laugh at thy fear. 
The bee has not hurt thee ; so brush off the tear, 
And silence thy sob, while I tell thee a tale 
About the white cottage, that stood in a vale. 

Around that white cottage sweet eglantine grew ; 
Bright golden-rod, cowslips, and violets blue ; 
The raspberry-bloom, and a thousand wild flowers 
Were scattered, or clustered, or twined into 
bowers. 

A rich honeysuckle climbed up to its eaves ; 
And near it the balm spread its high-odored 

leaves. 
Green trees stood around, the winged warblers to 

house. 
And robins and yellow-birds built in their boughs. 



8 



122 THE GOLDEN VASE. 

And there the birds caroled at eve and at morn, 
And brought little haws they had plucked from 

the thorn, 
Or wild seeds and insects they 'd gathered for food 
To drop in the wide-open beaks of their brood. 

Behind the neat cot stood a neat little hive, 
Which, had you peeped in, would have seemed 

all alive. 
At twilight, with bees in a swarm on the comb. 
Retired for the night in their cellular home. 

But, soon as the day dawned, the bees issued out. 
And flew to the new-opened flowers all about ; 
Where, making their sweet bread and honey, they 

thought 
Of winter, when none could be made or be bought. 

Then, back to the hive with their treasures they 

went. 
Where all brought together, with love and content. 
The fruits of their labor, in one common store. 
To save for the future ; then hied ofl" for more. 

While thus they were roaming on air through the 

day, 
And scattered so widely, still, each knew the way 
That led to the dear distant home, where, at night, 
They all met together in peace and delight. 



THE WHITE COTTAGE OF THE VALE. 123 

A family dwelt in that snug little cot, 

At peace with mankind, and content with their 

lot; 
From envy preserved, and known ever to thrive, 
As busy and happy as bees in a hive. 

And forth from that cottage two sweet little girls 
Would run, while the fresh morning air tossed 

their curls. 
With joy-beaming eye, and a smile on the lip, 
To see the glad bees at the honey-cups sip. 

Said one to the other, " How charming, to see 
The flowers yield their honey to breakfast the bee ; 
And still, with their colors and fragrance, remain 
As perfect as ever, and free from a stain ! " 

" And then," said her sister, " the brisk little bees 
That range through the bloom of the plants and 

the trees, 
And mind their own business, in constant employ. 
Appear every moment of life to enjoy. 

" They like not that others should come, it is true. 
To meddle with them, or the course they pursue ; 
And none e'er will learn they 've a sting, by its 

touch. 
But those, who have troubled and vexed them too 

much." 



124 THE GOLDEN VASE. 

And thus, dear Louisa, I think we may see 
The wisdom of nature in forming the bee. 
At work, unoffending, through flowers does he go, 
With sweets for a friend, and defence for a foe. 

Thou would'st not, I 'm sure, ever wish to annoy 
The brisk little chemist at such sweet employ. 
Thou 'It watch him, delighted, when high on the 

wing, 
Or low at his cup, and provoke not the sting. 



THE GOOD LADY MARY. 

Lady Mary was able 

To keep a good table ; 
And what was still better, none found her 

Without a good heart 

The good things to impart 
Which Providence showered around her. 

She was prudent, 't is true ; 

But was generous too. 
When charity called for her money ; 

And ever kept by, 

Her own board to supply, 
Fresh biscuit, sweet butter, and honey I 

And twenty things more, 
We '11 not stop to name o'er ; 

But such as gave comfort to many 
So old, lone, and poor. 
That at home, she felt sure 

They had very little, if any* 



126 THE GOLDEN VASE. 

And then, when there came 
To her house some old dame, 

So feeble she scarce could walk steady ; 
Lady Mary would say, 
" Take your cloak off and stay ; 

And early my tea shall be ready." 

So pleasant her smile, 

And her manner, the while — 

So kind was the welcome she gave her, 
'The modest old guest 
Would be put quite at rest. 

And stay, as if granting a favor. 

She 'd laugh then, and chat 

About this thing and that. 
And seek to amuse her meek hearer : 

As social and free. 

While she poured out the tea. 
As if some great duchess were near her. 

When the moment was come 

For her guest to go home, 
That she might neither want, beg, nor bor- 
row ; 

She 'd press her to take 

A nice tart, or a cake. 
Or something else, good for the morrow. 



THE GOOD LADY MARY. 127 

She sometimes would go 

Soothing words to bestow, 
With gifts and kind looks, where were lying 

The sick, pale and faint ; 

And she 'd kneel, like a saint, 
In prayer, by the bed of the dying. 

Her wish was, to see 

All as happy as she ; 
And she knew her kind deeds so to vary, 

That the sad, rich and poor 

Said, in heaven, they were sure, 
Was a place for the good Lady Mary, 



SOMETHING TO FIRE OFF. 

'' O, I wish I had something to fire off! " said 
little Ralph Wilder, in a mournful tone of voice, 
as he pensively sat, resting his elbow on the 
window, and his cheek upon his hand ; while the 
fresh morning air played between his full, smooth 
forehead and the silken locks that shaded it, " I 
wish I had something to fire off! " 

" Something to fire off? " said Mrs. Stanley, 
emphatically repeating the comprehensive and 
ambiguous appellation of the grand desideratum 
of her juvenile visiter, " and what is that ? my 
dear." 

" O," replied Ralph, " it 's any thing that goes 
off with gunpowder ; a little cannon, or a gun, or 
a pistol, or rockets, and squibs, and " — 

"And perhaps some of your fingers, too," 
said Mrs. Stanley, breaking the line of the young 
hero's battery. " What do you think people did 
for amusement, and to celebrate their great days 
and events, before the invention of gunpowder ? " 

*' I suppose," said Ralph, *Mhey had to stay in 



SOMETHING TO FIRE OFF. 129 

the house, and have no fun, just as I 've got to 
do. I shan't have any Independence to-day." 

" Then," answered Mrs. Stanley, perhaps you 
will have the more to-morrow, and for a long 
while to come. Poor George Warner had his 
Independence^ as you call it, in anticipation 
yesterday. Then he was carried home, a shock- 
ing spectacle to his friends, with his face blistered 
and black, his eyes closed, and so altered that 
his mother could not trace a feature of her child's 
countenance ; and she thought he was ruined, as 
to ever appearing with his former looks, or 
having his sight again. This was the conse- 
quence of playing with gunpowder." 

" A Warner ! sure enough," said Ralph, 
rousing up, and opening his eyes wider, as if to 
be sure that they were yet in good condition ; 
" but how did it happen ? " 

Mrs. Stanley continued. " Several boys, 
older and larger than George, wanting to do 
something, they hardly knew what, to make a 
flash and a noise, and show their independence, 
as a foretaste of the sports of to-day, went and 
purchased half a pound of gunpowder, and 
poured it down upon a green, where George's 
path lay, as he went home from his father's store. 
Having their train laid, they were all afraid to 
iire it. Just then little George came up, on his 



130 THE GOLDEN VASE. 

way home. ' Here, Georgie,' said one of them, 
knowing him to be an obliging little boy, ' touch 
this off for us.' ' O, yes, I'll touch it off,' said 
George ; ' give me a match.' He took the match, 
and, in a moment, there was a loud explosion ; 
George was enveloped in fire and smoke, his 
hair in a blaze, his eyebrows and lashes burnt 
off, his shirt sleeves and collar on fire, and his 
face all changed in the manner I have described, 
his hands were scathed all over ; and, to-day, he is 
confined, and bound up in the doctor's dressing, 
full of pain, and with the prospect of being a 
great while very dependent on the kindness of 
others for every thing. He may, besides, have 
to carry a mark on his face through life, as a 
remembrancer of that unlucky moment." 

" I hope not," said Ralph, looking very sor- 
rowfully at the thought of poor George's case. 

Ralph was a relative of Mrs. Stanley. He 
lived in a distant city, and had come to pa)'- her 
a visit during the school vacation, which hap- 
pened at the time when our great national festi- 
val, the Fourth of July, came round. He was an 
amiable, pleasant boy, who would not willingly 
do any thing morally wrong. He was docile 
and conscientious ; and where a question of. 
conscience was concerned, he reasoned with a 
discernment which seemed beyond his years, 



SOMETHING TO FIRE OFF. 131 

and usually helped him to decide correctly with- 
out much hesitation. He shunned the society of 
idle and wicked boys, not only to avoid the dan- 
ger of being drawn into temptation, but, also, 
from a native abhorrence of falsehood, dishonesty, 
meanness, and all their train of vices. Yet, not 
so jealous of others as of himself, he did not in- 
dulge a habit of suspecting their motives, till he 
had positive proof of their unworthiness. Then 
he would quit them ; and often, to use his own 
term, " fire off" a sharp reproof expressive of his 
opinion, as he turned to depart. For instance : 
on one occasion, he saw a little boy drop a dime, 
and another, a larger one, set his foot upon it, 
and scrape it away into the sand, while the 
loser was looking for it, holding it there till he 
had a chance to slide it into a rip in his shoe-sole. 
Then he walked off, and put it into his pocket, 
and said his father gave it to him. 

" Your father ! " said Ralph, indignantly, " it 's 
the father of lies that helped you to it. He 's 
walking about like a roaring lion seeking whom 
he may devour ; the Bible says so ; and he '11 
soon have you, Tom, if you don't mend your 
ways. I saw all your trick to get William's sil- 
ver piece ! " 

But with all these qualities of solidity in the 
character of Ralph, there was combined a high 



iS^ THE GOLDEN VASE. 

degree of enthusiasm, and a great fund of animal 
spirits. Whatever he* did, was done with all his 
heart. If he studied hard, he also played with 
all his might. And the ardor and buoyancy of 
his spirit sometimes made him forget the gravity 
of his body, till he was brought into a situation 
where a ducking in the water, or a bump from a 
fall made him realize, while the cold or the 
bruise lasted, that he was not yet all spirit ; and 
that he had in his composition something of a 
grosser kind — that he partook of the material 
nature. Then, when he got over one of these 
admonitions, away he would spring again, fear- 
less as before. 

He seemed like the young bird, that in its first 
flight from the nest, drops into the grass under 
the tree in your door-yard, where puss is watch- 
ing for just such a morsel for her breakfast. 
You take up the little feathered novice in flying, 
and set it on a branch of the tree, or a window ; 
when, off* it goes again, a little farther than be- 
fore, but not quite clear of the evil eye that is 
watching it ; and down it drops, a second time ; 
and it is not till you have repeatedly rescued it, 
that it has learnt the use of its wings, and gained 
strength to keep above danger. 

Thus, innocent as a young robin, Ralph was as 
gay, too, and as fearless of accident. 



SOMETHING TO FIRE OFF. 133 

Mrs. Stanley well knew this trait in the char- 
acter of her youthful guest ; and, as he was now 
away from the guardian eye of his father, she 
had deemed it most prudent not to mix any 
ingredient of the explosive kind in her provision 
for his entertainment on this day. 

On anniversaries like this, she had seen young 
people appear so surcharged with the spirit of 
the day, that they were giddy-headed, and jost- 
ling one another, or rushing themselves, into 
harm's way. They seemed to her like over-load- 
ed ordnance or musketry, that will go off at the 
slightest touch, or jar, bursting their own barrels, 
or scattering injury all around them. It was 
therefore her precaution for the safety of Ralph, 
that opened his mouth with the wish at the 
beginning of the foregoing dialogue. 

He had been waked very early by the noise of 
cannon, the ringing of bells, and the clamor of 
troops of half-distracted boys who had been patrol- 
ling the streets nearly all night, as if determined 
neither to rest themselves, nor to let others have 
any quiet sleep. 

Dressing himself hastily, and running down 
stairs, Ralph rushed out of doors, feeling it in- 
cumbent on him to do something extraordinary, 
too, towards celebrating this great and noisy day. 
He smelt the smoke of gunpowder and crackers ; 



134 THE GOLDEN VASE. 

and it seemed to inspire him with a sort of inex- 
plicable wildness. But he had none to fire off. 
He was not acquainted with the boys of the 
neighborhood. He felt himself a visiter ; and 
for a while maintained a suitable deportment as 
such. He did not know where to obtain the fiery 
serpents ; and felt that it was not proper for him 
to ask Mrs. Stanley to go with him in quest of so 
unlady-like a purchase ; or to take care of him in a 
confused populace. So he returned into the 
house, and sat down in silence, to think the mat- 
ter over, till his heart swelled up, and broke forth 
at his mouth. 

Mrs. Stafrtey succeeded in consoling him some- 
what, by telling him that the best of the fire- 
works would be exhibited on an organized plan, 
in the evening ; when she would take him to a 
friend's house, where they could see the whole, 
from a safe position. But finding his mind still 
running upon gunpowder, she thought that, for 
the time being, some little stories in which it 
formed an active character, would lead his imag- 
ination into a pleasanter train than he himself 
would be in, by the actual possession of, or con- 
tact with it. 

She saw that she had now hit, not as the pro- 
verb says, the nail on the head ; but Ralph's 
head, as the phrenologists would say, on the right 



SOMETHING TO FIRE OFF. 135 

organ. So she began. " What do you think, 
Ralph, was the first thing fired off by the force of 
that combination of materials of which gunpow- 
der is made ?" 

" I do n't know," said Ralph, " unless it was a 
rocket." " No, not a rocket ; but something of 
just as many syllables and letters," said Mrs. 
Stanley ; " something that you have seen painted 
on an apothecary's sign." 

"B-o-t — O, a loitleP' exclaimed Ralph. 

" Not a bottle, though a word ending in t, 1, 
e ;" said Mrs. Stanley. 

" Then," said Ralph, despairingly, " I give it 
up." " Well," continued Mrs. Stanley, " about 
the year 1330, (though some say, ten or twenty 
years earlier,) a German monk, named Berthold 
Schwartz " — 

" Stop !" cried Ralph, vehemently, " How's 
that last name spelt?" 

" S, c, h, w, a, r, t, z ;" replied Mrs. Stanley. 

" Ho, what a name !" said Ralph, " seven con- 
sonants to one poor little vowel, a! \ should think 
any body 'd need gunpowder to blow that out of 
their mouth. But, what did he do ?" 

"He is said," replied Mrs. Stanley, " to have 
discovered the power of gunpowder, or that com- 
bination of sulphur, saltpetre and charcoal, of 
which it is made, when confined and set on fire, 



136 THE GOLDEN VASE. 

in propelling heavy bodies. Though a writer 
who lived seventy or eighty years before him, is 
thought to have been acquainted with the opera- 
tion of this compound ; as he says in his works : 
'You may raise thunder and lightning at your 
pleasure, only by taking sulphur, nitre, and 
charcoal, which singly have no effect; but 
confined into a close place, cause an explosion 
greater than that of a clap of thunder.' This 
writer was Roger Bacon — " 

" Well," said Ralph, impatiently interrupting 
Mrs. Stanley, " let him be hacon ! But what did 
the monk fire off*.?" 

" The monk," continued Mrs. Stanley, " was 
one of a class of deluded, superstitious men of the 
times denominated the dark ages, called alche- 
mists. Without the light of science, they prac- 
tised chemistry in the vain belief that they should 
discover the art of commuting the baser metals to 
gold ; and that of extracting from the mineral or 
vegetable kingdom, an elixir, or medicine to pre- 
serve perpetual youth and health. They were 
untiring in pursuit of an imaginary good, that 
they called the philosopher's stone ; which they 
fancied would impart to them the secret of these 
two arts, could they but obtain it. For this they 
spent their lives in making experiments ; and 
thereby were led to the developement of some 
important chemical results." 



SOMETHING TO FIRE OFF. 137 

"But," cried Ralph, suddenly, and with his 
patience stretched to the utmost, " what was it 
that the monk fired off? " 

" Why," said Mrs. Stanley, " in one of his 
experimenting fits, he put into the mortar a quan- 
tity of the compound of which gunpowder is 
formed. It so happened, that into this there acci- 
dentally fell a spark of fire ; when, to the poor 
monk's utter consternation, flash ! went the pow- 
der ; hang ! went the mortar ; and up into the air 
flew the PESTLE, fired off! " 

" Hurrah ! " shouted Ralph, springing up and 
clapping his hands, as if he saw the pestle still in 
mid air ; " capital ! capital ! I should like to 
have been there. Then I 'd have had grand fun. 
But what did the monk do then } Where did 
the pestle go ? Did it hit any thing } Did it 
ever come back } " 

" I never heard," said Mrs. Stanley. 

" Nor what became of the monk .? " said Ralph. 

" No," replied Mrs. Stanley ; " and for aught 
that I know, he got as bad a burn on his face 
and hands as George Warner did yesterday." 

" I guess they do n't smart so badly to-day, 
though," said Ralph. " But is that all .? " 

"Yes," said Mrs. Stanley, "it's all that I 
know ; only this — that the alchemist did not find 
9 



138 THE GOLDEN VASE. 

the elixir of life, nor brass changed to gold, in 
the bottom of his mortar." 

" Do tell another story about gunpowder," said 
Ralph. And Mrs. Stanley recommenced. " Did 
you ever hear what the aborigines — the Indians 
of our country — thought when they saw the first 
gunpowder used by the Europeans who came 
among them .? They were greatly terrified at its 
effects ; and thought it was some unearthly agent. 
But, becoming more familiar with the view of it, 
and seeing how useful the ' pale faces,' as they 
called the white men, made it as an article of de- 
fence, and in killing game, they were as much 
pleased as they had before been afraid ; and said 
they wanted to raise a crop of it. So they 
bought up a large quantity, at a high price in 
such things as they had to barter, and planted it. 
They said they liked that kind of seed ^ and they 
intended to sow it, so as to have enough of it. 
They did the same by nails, when they perceived 
how useful the Europeans made them in fasten- 
ing together the boards of their habitations. 
They procured some, and planted them in the 
ground, expecting to see trees come up that 
would bear nails. Thus did these poor simple 
children of nature look to her for the supply of 
all their wants and conveniences. But they have 



SOMETHING TO FIRE OFF. 139 

since had, indeed, enough of gunpowder, in very 
different ways from what they desired." 

" O, that's too tame!" cried Ralph, disap- 
pointed at not hearing of an explosion. " Can 't 
you tell me a longer story ; one that will have 
something go off bang ! in it } " 

Mrs. Stanley began. " Here is a little anec- 
dote of what once happened under my own 
observation. It is about a young brother and 
sister ; and I will call the story after them." 

HORATIO AND ELLEN. 

Horatio was a little boy, very fond of his bow 
and arrows ; and so often did he amuse himself in 
sport with these, that he at length became quite 
an expert marksman. His sister Ellen was 
younger than himself, but so near his own age, 
that they were companions in their play and 
their rambles, in the house, or the fields and 
woods ; for, they lived, as it will be perceived, in 
the country. 

If Horatio went out with his luncheon and his 
basket, to gather strawberries, blueberries, or 
wild grapes, you might always know that Ellen 
was not far off. If he took his little fishing-rod 
of alder, and went down into the meadow, to 
fish for trout in the narrow stream that divided 
it, there would Ellen be, looking after flowers 



140 



THE GOLDEN VASE. 



among the tall grass and rushes ; or seated on a 
bank, watching for a rippHng of the water round 
the line, that showed when some little child of 
the brook was nibbling at the bait. But Ellen 
was always glad, when Horatio twitched back 
his line, to see a tuft of weeds, instead of a poor 
jfish dangling and writhing, on the hook at the 
end of it. 

When Ellen was in her play-room, giving her 
dolls a gala-day, and setting out all her toys for 
their entertainment, Horatio could officiate there, 
and often as master of the ceremonies. Yet it 
must be confessed, that his interest in these make- 
believe tea-parties was wonderfully diminished, 
when, in process of time, it so happened, that 
Horatio came into possession of a fine gun, of 
small size, but polished, straight, in good trim, 
and well adapted to the age and capacities of its 
young master. 

With this acquisition, Horatio felt himself 
made for this world. It seemed to him unques- 
tionably the key to happiness ; and, while his 
fondness for house-play with Ellen daily les- 
sened, her curiosity was in proportion increased 
to see into the mystery of a gun's going off by 
a touch on the lock. 

She could not imagine how that little snap, 
done with the finger, away up near the but-end of 



SOMETHING TO FIRE OFF. 141 

the gun, could possibly operate upon what was 
mside the barrel, so as to produce an explosion, 
and send such a furious emission of fire, smoke, 
and balls, out at the muzzle. 

Horatio had attempted to explain the process, 
theoretically ; but finding that she could not see 
into it without illustration, he undertook to reach 
her understanding by the more direct course of a 
practical lesson ; or, rather, to show her, gun in 
hand, the philosophy of the mighty phenomenon. 

So, one morning, he took his musket, called 
his sister, and with Caper, the little dog, frisking 
along beside them, he and Ellen walked forth to a 
flowery hill-side, at a considerable distance from 
the house ; where they used ofien to sit together, 
eating the cakes they had carried out, or crack- 
ing the nuts and acorns they had gathered under 
the trees around, happy and careless as two 
young squirrels. 

The slope of the hill ran down to meet that of 
another ; where they ended in a deep ravine, into 
which a small waterfall dashed, and then ran off 
in a sprightly, sparkling brook, between borders 
of grass and rocks, interspersed with flowers, and 
here and there a tall, graceful plume of the 
sweet-briar, the thimbleberry, or raspberry-vine, 
or a festoon of the blackberry and wild ivy, 
wreathed and hanging from crag and crevice. 



142 THE GOLDEN VASE. 

The eastern bank, the one opposite to where the 
children sat, was surmounted by a steep ledge 
of rock ; and this again, by ground forming 
another hill, or rather, high table-land, on which 
stood some venerable old trees, of oak, chestnut, 
and rock-maple — a very hard kind of wood. 

" Look here," said Horatio. And Ellen 
placed her head close to his, and over the gun- 
lock. " Now, Ellen, the gun is loaded grandly ; 
but it can 't go off, if I do snap it ; because there 
is no powder (which we call priming) in this 
little pan, under where the flint strikes. If there 
was powder here, it would flash with the spark, 
and through this little hole in the side of the 
barrel, catch that within, and so fire off" the gun, 
that you'd hear the noise ring and echo all 
round among these rocks and hills. 

" Now put your eye right down here, Ellen, 
just as if you were taking aim at something on 
the trunk of that great tree ; and I '11 snap it, to 
show you how we hit a mark, just as if you 
fired." 

" O," said Ellen, shrinking back, " I can 't, 
I 'm afraid." 

^^ Afraid /" said Horatio, " what are you afraid 
of.? Don't I tell you the gun can'^t go ofl^, if I 
snap it ever so much, without priming ? You 
are equal to the old goody in the story-book, who 



SOMETHING TO FIRE OFF. 143 

told her pet-boy to put away the gun for fear it 
would go off, if there wasnH any lock on it. 
Why, I should n't be afraid to stand right before 
the muzzle, and let any body snap the lock as 
hard as they pleased. I tell you it 's impossible 
for it to go off without priming. We could as 
well cry, 'halloo,' with our mouths shut. Be- 
sides, if it should fire, how do you think it could 
hurt us, at this end ? You do n't suppose it 
shoots backward ? It would be a queer sort of 
gun to do that." 

Encouraged by her brother's reasoning, and 
taking his satire somewhat proudly, Ellen ad- 
vanced her head a little nearer. Horatio drew, 
when off went the gun, with a tremendous report, 
which reverberated among the rocks and wooded 
hills around, while it had kicked him forcibly in 
the chest, and laid him flat upon his back, on the 
hill-side. 

Ellen thought, for a moment, that her brother 
was shot ; though she did not consider which end 
of the fearfid engine was towards him ; and she 
uttered a shriek that was heard by their father, 
who, hearing the sound of the gun succeeded by 
such a piteous cry, hastened trembling to the 
spot, thinking nothing short of some dreadful 
accident could have happened. 

But Horatio soon rallied his prostrated powers ; 



144 THE GOLDEN YASE. 

and, rising with a look of mingled surprise and 
mortification, rubbed his arm, stomach, and fore- 
head, and said he was n't hurt ; but he was afraid 
his gun was ; he thought it must be burst. 

" How, my son, did such an accident hap- 
pen ? " said the father; " a merciful Providence 
alone has saved you from the penalty of a ruined 
hand and arm, by tampering with so dangerous a 
plaything. But what was the cause of this 
violent explosion ? " 

" I do n't know," said Horatio. " I suppose 
that little mischievous spark was mad, mad as 
fire, because I struck it for nothing ; and so flew 
inside the gun, and touched it off out of spite." 

" A little agent," said the father, " can do 
great evil. Where did the charge go ? " 

" Over the brook, to a tree on the other hill," 
said Horatio. 

" What was your gun loaded with ? " asked 
the father. 

" Duck shot," said Horatio, laconically. 

" And where did you aim ? " said the father. 

" O, papa, he did n't aim any where, / aimed," 
said Ellen, " at that maple ; but I did n't think 
the gun was going to shoot there, because I looked 
over it at the tree." 

" Nor I did n't expect she was going to fly in 



SOMETHING TO FIRE OFF. 145 

such a passion, and kick me down, just for 
showing Ellen how we fire off," said Horatio. 
" Come here. Caper ; I 'm glad you were not 
between her and the maple-tree." 

" It might have been your dog, or one of your 
parents, or a brother, or a sister, or neighbor," 
said the father. " But come, let's go round and 
see where the shot went." 

On going over to the other hill, they found 
where the shot had entered, and each buried 
itself in the body of the rock-maple. "Look at 
this," said Horatio's father, "and beware how 
you handle fire-arms, or sport with powder, till 
you are older and have more judgment. You 
must have loaded your gun with a double charge, 
to make it throw with such force. Be thankful 
it is no worse, and that a human body instead of 
the tree, did not stand in the way." 

" I am thankful," said Horatio. " But I wish 
it had been the old black fellow that pulled up 
the corn from the hills, just as it began to shoot." 

" Who do you mean ? Horatio," said Ellen. 
"I hope no old black one will pull us up, for just 
beginning to shoot. I suppose you mean the 
one that goes, ' caw, caw, caw,' his call for corn, 
corn, corn, perhaps. But I should prefer to 
have him take a hint from the scarecrow, that 
you rigged up for the field, Horatio, to seeing 



146 THE GOLDEN VASE. 

him shot, and his great black wings flapping, 
never more to rise, and in the agonies of death, 
just for trying to get his food. He does n't know 
that he has not as good a right to get it in one 
place as another. And then, what good would it 
do us to have him killed ? He would n't be fit 
for any use, I 'm sure ; and I 'm glad I have n't 
had any thing to do with killing a croiv.''^ 

" No, Ellen," said Horatio, " and you would n't 
kill a gnat, if you could coax it to get out of your 
way. I wonder you are not afraid to walk, be- 
cause there may be some little creeping thing for 
you to tread on, in your path. Why, what do 
you think my gun is for } But people do eat 
crows sometimes. I 've read that in a book of 
travels." 

" Travels where .? " asked Ellen ; and Horatio 
continued. 

" A gentleman was travelling in Switzerland 
only a few years ago ; and his route led among 
the mountains that contain the copper-mines. In 
these mines a great many people spend their 
lives, from the time when they are first old 
enough to work, till they die, or grow very old ; 
and all for the pay of a few coppers, just enough 
to keep them from starving, from day to day ; 
while they still toil on in the hope of making 
enough by and by, to go out, and live in a more 



SOMETHING TO FIRE OFF. 147 

comfortable condition, and better homes. He 
says he visited some of the mines ; and went 
down into the smeUing-room of one." 

" What is a smelting-room ? " asked Ellen. 

" It is the place where they keep furnaces, to 
melt the ore, and separate it from earthy parti- 
cles or other minerals," said Horatio. 

" What has that to do with a crow > " said 
Ellen. 

" Just have patience," said Horatio, impatient- 
ly, " and you shall hear. It spoils the best story 
in the world, to have the one you are telling it to, 
keep breaking in, by asking questions ; when, if 
they would only listen, and wait, they would have 
what they want to know explained in a proper 
place." 

" And without the explainer's being knocked 
over, or making a grand explosion ? " said the 
father, somewhat dryly, with a smile at Horatio, 
to whom he had been a silent listener ; and who 
well understood its meaning, while he continued. 

" The traveller went into the smelting-room ; and 
there he saw a poor old man, wretchedly clothed, 
with a haggard face, long beard, and thin silvery 
hair, sitting on a stone beside the furnace of 
coals, on which a pot of boiling water rested ; 
and with a dead crow on his lap, which he now 
and then dipped into the pot to loosen the feathers 



148 THE GOLDEN VASE. 

that he would then strip off; and again dip the 
crow. This the poor old man was preparing to 
broil for his dinner, in that melancholy place ; and 
he had probably lived in this way, ever since his 
hairs, now so white, were black as the crow's 
feathers." 

" Poor man ! " exclaimed Ellen. " It 's very 
sorrowful to think of him, with his venerable 
head and aged limbs buried alive there. I wish 
I could go and carry him some better dinner than 
that crow." 

" We little think," said the father, " when we 
feel discontented, and complain, if we cannot 
have things just as we w^ish them to be, how 
many there are denied the common blessings 
which we enjoy ; and so constantly, that we are 
very apt to become insensible that they are bless- 
ings ; while thousands would feel most happy, 
only to share them in small proportion. A new 
bonnet, which caused Miss Ellen to hang her 
head like a bulrush, because she could not have 
it on the day she fancied it indispensable, would 
cost enough to procure temporary relief for many 
a hungry mouth. And the dinner-table, at which 
she gave a dissatisfied look, and said she had no 
appetite, because it did not offer her favorite 
dish, would be approached by many, even close 
around us, with sincere gratitude to Heaven ; as a 



SOMETHING TO FIRE OFF. 149 

rich bounty of that Providence which so constantly 
supplies us with all things meet and convenient." 

The gentle, compassionate Ellen winced a 
little under this lecture ; and when she could 
bear it no longer, taking up the stitch dropped in 
the gun-story, she broke forth : 

" I guess nobody will ever find me entering 
into boys' sports, so as to take aim again ! " 

" And I," said Horatio, " shall take care in 
future, how I trust to a pan that has no priming 
in it." 

" I hope," said their father, " that you will 
both, my children, be thankful, as I am, to that 
protecting power who has thus preserved you 
from fatal or serious injury in this rash and 
dangerous experiment ; and let it teach you 
henceforth to trifle no more with instruments of 
destruction, which you are neither old enough, nor 
wise enough to wield, or to manage with safety 
to yourselves and others." 

As the father pronounced the last word, he 
stepped over the threshold, when Ellen, Horatio 
bearing the intractable gun, and Caper bringing 
up the rear, followed into the house, and the door 
was closed, shutting them all from the spectator 
without. 

" Is that the end of the story ? " said Ralph 



150 THE GOLDEN VASE. 

Wilder, who had been a silent listener through 
the whole of it. 

" Yes," replied Mrs. Stanley, " and I have 
only time to tell you one more. And that is 
about Harry Hare-Brain, and goes in verse." 

" O ! " exclaimed Ralph, " that 's just what I 
like, stories in poetry. Can't you tell me a good 
many ? " 

" Not to-day," replied Mrs. Stanley, " though 
I may at some future time. When you have 
heard this, we shall have had enough of fire- 
works, till we go to see them from Mrs. Ward's 
balcony, this evening. The story runs thus, and 
is called, 

THE YOUNG SPORTSMAN. 
Harry had a dog and gun ; 

And he loved to set the one, 
Barking, out upon the run; 

While he held the other, 
Often charged so heavily, 
'T was a dangerous thing, to be 
Near a wight, so young as he, 

Mindless of his mother. 

Earnestly she warned her child 

To forego a sport so wild ', 

While he, turning, frowned or smiledj 

Then away would sidle. 
For, to give him short and long, 
Harry had a head so strong. 
In the right, or in the wrong, 
It was hard to bridle. 



SOMETHING TO FIRE OFF. 151 

On his sporting madly bent, 
Often, in his clothes, a rent 
Told the reckless way he went 

Over hedge and brambles. 
Homeward then did Harry slouch, 
With his gun and empty pouch, 
Looking like a scaramouch. 

Coming from his rambles. 

Sometimes, when he scaled a wall, 
Down he pitched, and with his fall. 
Rattling stones, and gun and all 

Then together tumbled ^ 
Tray would bark to tell the news 
Of his master with a bruise, 
Hatless, and with grated shoes, 

Lying flat and humbled. 



Harry, sure of hare or bird. 
Drew, and at a flash was heard 

Noise like little thunder. 
Running then his game to find, 
Finding he'd but shot the wind, 
Disappointment mazed his mind ; 

Dumb he stood with wonder ! 

Not so nimble as his dog, 
Over muddy pool and bog. 
When he walked a plank or log, 

There his balance losing, 
" Splash ! " and O, the rueful sight ! 
If his face before was bright, 
'T was like morning turned to night, 

Much against his choosing. 



152 THE GOLDEN VASE. 

Now, like many a hasty one, 
Whether quadruped or gun, 
Or a mother's wayward son, 

Given to disaster, 
Harry's gun was rather quick, 
And it had a naughty trick; 
It would snap itself, and kick 

Fiercely at its master. 

So, this snappish habit grew 
With a power for him to rue; 
Just as all bad habits do 

Grow, as age increases. 
When, one day, with sound and smoke. 
Overcharged, the barrel broke ; 
Harry's hand the mischief spoke — 

It was blown to pieces ! 



Saw the gore, and whined, and howled ; 
While his owner groaned and scowled, 

And the blood was running. 
With the horrors of his fate, 
And his anguish desperate, 
Then poor Harry owned, too late, 

He was sick of gunning. 

While his mother bent to mourn, 
As her froward child was borne, 
With a hand all burnt and torn, 

Pale and faint before her. 
Harry's pain must be endured. 
And the wound — it might be cured ; 
But, for fingers uninsured, 

There was no restorer. 



SOMETHING TO FIRE OFF. 153 

" He might have expected it ! " exclaimed 
Ralph, with a burst of indignation, as Mrs. Stan- 
ley finished her recital of the poem. " He 
might have expected it for his disobedience and 
wilfulness." 

After tea Mrs. Stanley fulfilled her promise, 
and, in company with some other friends, took 
Ralph, and walked to Mrs. Ward's. They had 
seats in an elevated situation, where they could 
have a fair view of the whole show of fireworks. 

These were chiefly arranged on a high bank 
bordering one side of a beautiful, smooth sheet of 
water. On this stagings were erected, and the 
men and the fireworks stationed on them, so 
that the spectators on the opposite side could see 
them, as it were doubly ; in the air, and in the 
water, where they were reflected. 

There were also some parts of the show set 
afloat on the pond. One of these was an inven- 
tion called the bee-hive. Then, there were some 
blazing tar-barrels, glaring on the cool element ; 
just like a person raging in a fire of anger against 
one who is calm, and feels none of the fierce 
passion, while he knows that the other is only 
tending to self-injury. 

A knot of giddy-headed, reckless boys, think- 
ing to show themselves off* to wonderful advan- 
tage to the multitude, and determined to get 
10 



154 THE GOLDEN VASE. 

nearer than others to the bee-hive, and the blaz- 
ing barrels, procured an old boat, and huddling 
into it, took the oars, and pushed from the shore. 

When nearly in the centre of the pond, they 
began to unload their pockets of their freight, 
which consisted of powder done up in a variety 
of forms, such as rockets, squibs, serpents, and 
other equally desirable things, and began to 
" fire off." 

Forgetting what element they were on, and 
heedless of every thing but their play, they 
leaned, and scampered about, this way and that; 
when suddenly the boat dipped, capsized, and, 
in a moment, spilled all her crew out into the 
water ! 

And O, what a scene ensued ! what lamentable 
cries issued from the pond, and sounded all 
around on its borders ! The men with the fire- 
works sprang from the stage, tipping up the 
boards, knocking down their apparatus, and one 
another, as they rushed forth and leaped into the 
water ; women shrieked, and children cried ; 
while the pond was all in commotion with men 
splashing here and there, and flaming tar lighted 
the fearful scene with a horrible brightness, as 
the fiery bees played off, in seeming mockery of 
the whole performance. Fathers were hurrying 
this way and that for their boys. Mothers were 



SOMETHING TO FIRE OFF. 155 

wringing their hands, and calling aloud for their 
sons. Doctors were run for, and came rushing 
through the crowd ; the boys of the boat were 
one after another fished up, and brought out to 
land, muddy and dripping, some nearly breath- 
less, and others, with feeling enough to be 
thoroughly mortified at the humbling termination 
of their bold exploit. 

Mrs. Stanley took Ralph Wilder by the hand, 
and finding him cold and tremulous, looked him 
in the face, and saw it pale, and his eyes swim- 
ming in tears. " What is the matter ? " said 
she ; " do you feel unwell ? " 

" Yes," said Ralph ; " I 'm tired — F m fright- 
ened — I shall think of this all night. I want to 
go home. I 've had independence enough, and 
don't want to see any more firing off"." 

Ralph's head had hardly touched the pillow 
that night, when he was sound asleep ; and 
seemed as if taking the lost slumber of the pre- 
vious night into the account. 

In the morning he looked well and happy. 
As he was sitting at the window, in the forenoon, 
he saw a group of boys, and among them, two 
or three who seemed to be there not so much by 
choice, as by being surrounded by the others, 
and with rather downcast looks. He soon dis- 
covered what was going on. 



156 THE GOLDEN VASE. 

" How did you like your ducking, Sam ? " 
said one. 

" Where are your fins, Dick ? " said another. 

" If old Timmy, the lobster-monger, had been 
there," said a third, " he would have hauled you 
up, and thrown you into his kettle." 

The generous spirit in Ralph's bosom could 
no longer bear to witness these taunts of ignoble 
triumph. He sprang up, and rushing to the 
door, cried, at the height of his voice, "Let'em 
alone ! Do n't you think they feel badly enough, 
without being tormented in this way ? I tell 
you, let'em alone ! " 

" You tell us," said one pert little fellow, 
while half a dozen faces were silently turned 
towards the door where the young stranger stood. 
*' And who are you ? " 

" I 'm not ashamed to tell my name ; but who 
are you?" said Ralph. "Are you any body 
who never committed a fault? and if not, did 
you want to be teased, and hear about it forever, 
without having a fair opportunity to show that 
you were sorry, and should do better in time to 
come ? " And then, with the eyes of the whole 
troop, who stood in silence, turned upon him, as 
he stepped back, and was about to close the 
door, he added aloud, 

" My name 's Ralph Wilder," 




th:e ]E.^rAPT. 



ESCAPE OF THE DOVES. 

Come back, pretty doves ! O, come back from 
the tree, 

You bright little fugitive things ! 
We could not have thought you so ready and free 

In using your beautiful wings. 

We did not suppose, when we lifted the lid 

To see if you knew how to fly. 
You 'd all flutter ofl" in a moment, and bid 

The basket forever good-by. 

Come down, and we '11 feed you on insects and 
seeds ; 

You '11 find no occasion to roam ; 
We '11 give you all things, that a bird ever needs 

To make it contented at home. 

Then come, pretty doves, O return, for our sakes. 
And do n't keep away from us thus ; 

Or when your old slumbering master awakes, 
'T will be a sad moment for us ! 



158 THE GOLDEN VASE. 

" We can 't," thought the doves, " and the basket 
may stand 

A long time in waiting ; and now 
You find out too late, that a bird in the hand 

Is worth at least two on the bough. 

" And we, from our height looking down on you 
there, 

By experience taught to be sage. 
Find one pair of wings, that are free on the air, 

Is worth two or three in the cage. 

" But when our old master awakes, and shall find 
What work you have just been about, 

We hope, by the freedom we love, he '11 be kind, 
And spare you for letting us out. 

" We thank you for all the fine stories you tell, 
And all the good things you would give ; 

But think, since we 're out, we shall do very well 
Where nature designed us to live. 

" Whenever you think of the swift little wings, 
On which from your reach we have flown, 

No doubt you '11 beware how you meddle with 
things 
In future, that are not your own ! " 



HELEN'S BIRTHDAY. 

WRITTEN IN HER ALBUM. 

Now Helen, dear, I hear thee say- 
That thou art six years old to-day ! 
So I will set my record here 
Of thy beginning seventh year ; 
That thou in after days may'st find 
The trace, which this has left behind. 

This morning we together strayed 
Mid fern, and brake, and forest-shade ; 
And with thy little hand in mine. 
We passed the rustling oak and pine ; 
Where last year's acorn, cup and cone 
Among its withered leaves were strown. 

The nimble squirrel, climbing high, 
Looked down on us with curious eye ; 
While birds amid the branches sung. 
Till through the wood their music rung; 
And in the boughs, the spicy breeze 
Made leafy air-harps of the trees. 



160 THE GOLDEN VASE. 

Round, scarlet berries, ripe and sweet, 

Peeped out like gems beside our feet ; 
Ttie modest harebell bowed beneath 
The sweetbriar tall, her balm to breathe ; 

And many a little floweret wild 

Grew low, but looked to heaven and smiled. 

We ventured down the mossy steep. 

That edged the waters clear and deep, 
Where blooming laurels grew beside 
The Merrimac's broad silver tide ; 

And all was beauteous, fresh and fair, 

In nature's glory shining there. 

And may thy future days be bright, 
Thy heart be ever pure and light ; 
As when, a little gladsome child, 
I led thee through the flowery wild ; 
And by thy prattling tongue was told, 
" I am to-day just six years old ! 

In other days, when thou may'st see 
My face no more, remember me — 
Remember, that I asked to-day 
Heaven's smile upon thy future way ; 
That 'twas thy parent's early friend. 
And thine, who this memento penned. 



THE LITTLE GIRLS' FAIR. 

Passing from my door one day for a walk, I 
was met by two of the many little girls, whom I 
have the pleasure to count among my friends. 

They came up to me and paused ; when one 
of them, with a sweet smile playing about her 
mouth, said, " Will you write us a poem ? " 

It needs not to be told that her unexpected, in- 
formal greeting and request occasioned a respon- 
sive smile, a little hesitation, and a look somewhat 
inquisitive, on my part, before I opened my lips. 

A foreigner has said, " An American, especial- 
ly a Yankee, usually answers your question by 
asking one." Illustrating this remark by an ex- 
ample, I asked, " And for what do you wish a 



poem 



" For the Fair," was the laconic reply. 

" What is the Fair to be for ? " said I. 

" For the benefit of A D and M 

K ," said the young petitioner, with a sudden 

rush of earnest and tender expression increasing 
the animation of her beaming face, " We are 



162 THE GOLDEN VASE. 

all " — and she named over a whole chain of her 
youthful companions, joined, as golden links, 
hand in hand in a good work of charity and love ; 
" We are all of us making up pretty things, and 
collecting what we can to sell at the Fair, we 
are going to have, to get something, as much 

money as we can, for poor A D and 

M K to assist them before the cold, hard 

winter comes on ; and we want a poem to sell to 
help us out." 

" Dear children ! " methought, " harder and 
colder than the winter must be the heart, that 
could remain untouched by such an appeal ; and 
not wish a blessing on your enterprise and 
move the hand to aid you in it ! " I knew the 
condition of the two individuals named, and that 
charity and love could hardly be directed, within 
the scope of my knowledge, to objects more wor- 
thy ; or be employed in a more holy cause than 
relieving their distress, and contributing to their 
comfort. 

A D is a young man, who, eleven 

years ago, was a bright, active, and good boy of 
fourteen years, in a merchant's store. He was 
sprightly, intelligent and faithful ; performing the 
part of clerk at the desk, and salesman at the 
counter; and promising to make an efficient, 
useful, and good man. But, during a long spell 



THE LITTLE GIRLS' FAIR. 163 

of cold, rainy weather, he was seized, while in 
the store, with a violent rheumatic affection in 
his whole system, which nearly destroyed his 
life. This was spared, but with perpetual, ex- 
cruciating suffering, which drew one hand and 
arm out of shape, stopping the growth, and bend- 
ing the fingers back upon the wrist. The lower 
limb of the same side being in a similarly dis- 
torted and distressing state. His parents, re- 
spectable, and in comfortable circumstances from 
their industry, did not find it difficult to provide 
for his necessities and support, till his father, a 
mechanic, was a few years ago disabled from 
doing any thing, by paralysis ; and he is now 
laid by to be taken care of, helpless almost, and 
far more unable to do any thing useful than his 

son. He is confined in one room, and A in 

another across the entry ; while the poor wife 
and mother has them both to take care of, and to 
attend to and supply all their wants and necessi- 
ties. 

A is now a little past twenty-four. He 

sits up in his bed, where he has been nearly 
eleven years, unable to move from it or to reach 
for a book or any thing else that has slipped out 
of place, beyond the length of his arm, when it 
had been laid before him. His friends carry 
him books ; for he is very fond of reading, and 



164 THE GOLDEN VASE. 

has a refined taste, and quick understanding. 
They also carry various materials, such as gilt 
paper, engravings, paste-board, colored paper, 
and such other little articles as he can with one 
hand, and the thumb alone of the other, make 
into small boxes ; which he sells to his visiters, to 
furnish such needful things for himself and his 
father, as the small profit of his labor will buy. 
All his materials, his scissors, knife, paint-brush, 
for he paints a little, his gum-cup and such 
other affairs as he uses, lay before him on the bed ; 
and there he sits bolstered up, and works, when 
not in too much pain. The flowers, his friends 
bring him, he has set on the window beside his 
bed, and for every other and more substantial and 
available gift, as well as for the simplest flower, 
he Is very grateful. He always seems happy 
and cheerful. It is a great pleasure, and a use- 
ful act to one's self, to visit him. 

M K was a young lady very similar- 
ly affected, by the same disorder that has made 
Allen a cripple for life. Her case was so nearly 
like his, that It need not be farther described, to 
show how praiseworthy was the object of the 
little girls, with whom I just now left myself 
standing talking In the street, to tell the story of 
the objects of their solicitude. 

" I have never felt a very lively Interest in 



THE LITTLE GIRLs' FAIR. 165 

Fairs," said I, " but you shall have the poem, to 
help on this good work." 

I wrote the little poem, which I will append to 
this, in the hope that it would serve as a mite 
cast into the treasury of the Lord, and also em- 
body some ideas on the subject of pity and chari- 
ty, exemplified by works, which would not be 
lost on the young assembly into whose hands it 
was to be committed. 

The Fair succeeded admirably. A far great- 
er sum for each beneficiary was realized, than 
the most sanguine expectations anticipated. 

The little maidens had the satisfaction and the 
blessing of bestowing the sweet fruits of their 
labor, and of receiving thanks which words could 
not utter, but to which tears testified. But while 
they have the reflection of doing what they could 
to alleviate her pains of body and of mind, 
Martha, the female recipient of their good gift, 
has since left Allen behind on earth, and gone 
where, as a sweet little child of four years said 
to me a few days ago, when speaking of heaven, 
"there is no trouble — no pain — no darkness." 

THE FAIR. 

We learn from a Teacher, who taught long ago, 
What still, for his sake, to our neighbor we owe. 
We read what he spake in behalf of the poor, 
Whose precept is perfect — his word ever sure: 



166 THE GOLDEN VASE. 

We know 't is of these that his saying will be, 
" What ye did unto them, ye have done unto me." 
Then come, and your mite, or your bounty prepare, 
As he giveth you, for his cause at the Fair. 

A band of young maidens combined in his name, 
Who pitied the needy, the sick and the lame, 
As bees we Ve been busy, with labor and skill, 
Some honey-drop pure from each flower to distil. 
To sweeten the cup of affliction, and chase 
The pale cast of sadness by smiles from her face. 
O come! our good work and its blessing to share, 
And hold up our hands and our hearts at the Fair. 

We ask not your gold or your silver for naught, 
But proffer for these what our fingers have wrought 
And would that your gift may return seven-fold, 
In riches more precious than silver or gold. 
Since bread we abroad on the waters have cast 
Returns to us, when many days may have past, 
If good or if not, with increase; let 's beware. 
And not our pure off 'ring withhold at the Fair. 

Now pity, we know, offered dry and alone, 
Were giving a child, that asked bread, but a stone. 
For what shall kind words without charily pass ? 
As tinkling of C3'mbals, and sounding of brass ! 
Without it, of prophecy worthless the gift. 
And faith from their places the mountains to lift ! 
If such were the truths that a Paul could declare, 
Let us do something worthy a Paul at the Fair. 



THE LITTLE GIRLs' FAIR. 167 

Come, angel of charity, clothed in thy power, 
And o'er us preside, far to thee is ihe hour. 
O, melt every heart with thy beautiful eye, 
Whose soft-beaming light, from thy birthplace on high, 
With lustre so holy has brightened the tear 
It sheds for the woes thou art witnessing here! 
Then send thy sweet herald rejoicing to bear 
Glad tidings above of thy friends at the Fair. 



THE SHOEMAKER. 

" Act well your part, there all the honor lies." 

The shoemaker sat amid wax and leather, 

With lap-stone over his knee, 
Where, snug in his shop, he defied all weather, 
Drawing his quarters and sole together : 

A happy old man was he ! 

This happy old man was so wise and knowing, 

The worth of his time he knew. 
He bristled his ends, and he kept them going, 
And felt to each moment a stitch was owing, 
Until he got round the shoe. 

Of every deed that his wax was sealing, 

The closing was firm and fast. 
The prick of his awl never caused a feeling 
Of pain to the toe ; and his skill in heeling 

Was perfect, and true to the last- 



THE SHOEMAKER. 169 

Whenever you gave him a foot to measure, 

With gentle and skilful hand 
He took its proportions, with looks of pleasure, 
As if you were giving the costliest treasure, 

Or dubbing him lord of the land. 

And many a one did he save from getting 

A fever, or cold, or cough ; 
For many a foot did he save from wetting. 
When, whether in water or snow 't was setting, 

His shoeing would keep them off. 

When he had done with his making and mending, 

With hope and a peaceful breast. 
Resigning his awl, as his thread was ending. 
He passed from his bench, to the grave descending, 
As high as a king to rest. 



11 



IDLE JACK. 

See mischievous and idle Jack! 
How fast he flies, nor dares look back. 
He seized Horatio's pretty cart, 
And broke and threw it part from part ; 
The body here, and there the wheels ; 
And now, by taking to his heels. 
He proves the Scripture proverb true — 
The ivicked Jiee when none pursue. 

O, Jack 's a worthless, wicked boy. 
Who seems but evil to enjoy. 
He often racks his naughty brain, 
Inventing ways of giving pain. 
He loves to torture butterflies, 
To dust the kitten's tender eyes. 
To break the cricket's slender limb ; 
And pain to them is sport to him. 



IDLE JACK. 171 

He sometimes to your garden comes, 
To crush the flowers, and steal the plums ; 
The melons tries, with thievish gripe, 
To find the one that 's nearest ripe ; 
His pockets fills with grapes or pears, 
No matter how their owner fares ; 
When, by its lawless, robber track, 
We trace the foot of idle Jack. 

Whenever Jack is sent to school, 
He, playing truant, plays the fool ; 
Or else he goes, with sloven looks. 
And hands unclean, to spoil the books, 
To spill the ink, or make a noise, 
Disturbing good and studious boys ; 
Till all who find what Jack 's about 
Within the school, must wish him out. 

If ever Jack at church appears. 

He knows not, cares not what he hears. 

While others to the word attend. 

He has a pencil-point to mend ; 

An apple or his nails to pare ; 

Or cracks a nut in time of prayer ; 

Till many wish that Jack would come 

A better boy, or stay at home. 



172 THE GOLDEiN VASE. 

In short, he shows beyond a doubt, 
That if he does not turn about. 
And mend his morals and his ways, 
He yet must come to evil days ; 
And, of a life of wasted time. 
Of idleness, and vice, and crime, 
To meet, perhaps, a felon's end, 
With neither man, nor God, his friend. 




MCDTMIElEi BIIMDS 



MOTHER-BIRDS. 

Who loves to rob a bird of her young ? Who 
takes young birds from the nest, or in their first 
unsuccessful attempt at flight ? 

And can he, who does this, think the old bird 
feels no pain at the loss, no anguish, when she 
sees her heart's whole, cherished treasure borne 
off in her presence, or comes to her home, and 
finds it void ? 

How does he think his mother would feel, on 
returning to her home, to And she had no child 
left ; that all she had long and fondly nursed 
and cherished, her precious little ones, had been 
carried away in her absence, she knew not how 
or where ? Or, what does he suppose would be 
her distress at seeing him and his little brother 
or sister seized violently, and carried away by 
some hideous monster a hundred times as large 
as herself, to be killed, and their torn garments 
scattered about in her sight ; or shut up where 
she could never see them more, except in hope- 
less captivity ? 



174 THE GOLDEN VASE. 

Is any one given to distressing old birds, by 
depriving them of their little ones, from a wanton 
love of cruel sport, not caring what he causes 
nature's sweetest and fondest affections to suffer ? 
I have nothing further to say to him, than this : 
he is a monster among his kind ; he has a human 
form, but the heart of a vulture, or a weasel, or 
none at all. 

But I would convince him of his error, who 
may separate mother-birds and their offspring, 
under the false impression, that in this he com- 
mits no cruelty, and causes no pain. Birds 
have strong maternal love, and they suffer bitter- 
ly when their nestlings are in peril. 

A few summers ago, several robins had built 
in the trees in our door-yard, and a neighbor's 
adjoining garden. Very early one fair, peaceful 
Sabbath morning, before the sun had heaved his 
golden beams above the rosy horizon, I was 
startled suddenly from a profound sleep, by the 
loud sounds of distress nearly under my open 
window in the third story. The cries were such 
that I could not tell whether they were from 
bird or beast ; and so rapid and confused, I was 
unable to decide whether there were one, two, 
or more voices. It seemed an unceasing chorus 
of piercing shrieks. 

Hastening to the window, just below it, within 



MOTHER-BIRDS. 175 

the open door of the wood-house, and resting on 
its sill, I saw the hinder part of Madam Pussy ; 
and, farther on, her inhuman fore-paws grasping 
a poor little young robin, that had just been 
seized, with its tora-out feathers flying over its 
murderer's head. The victim was silent ; but 
the two old birds were fluttering and darting 
rapidly over it, this way and that, so low that 
their wings seemed to sweep the cat's back ; and 
if they had been gifted with hands, they might 
have rescued their child from their fearful ene- 
my's hold, while yet it lived. 

But they could do nothing to relieve it ; and it 
seemed as if they would tear their throats, and 
shake themselves to atoms with agitation and 
sharp cries of anguish. I never saw in nature 
such a picture of agonized aflection. 

I called to a person below to run and deliver 
the young bird. But the ear of a cat will hear 
the foot of a mouse. A step was perceived ap- 
proaching behind her, and puss, shifting her 
victim from her claws to her teeth, made off 
with her prey to the loft ; while the old birds 
retired into a tree, and, for a long time, kept up 
their piteous cries, which their little one had 
ceased to hear. 

Another specimen of the maternal care and 
ingenuity of a robin was exhibited, a few years 



176 



THE GOLDEN VASE. 



since, in the next street below me. The tree 
before a house had spread so far as to darken 
the windows, and the owner lopped off some of 
the boughs. 

The next day, when the sun was at its merid- 
ian height, he saw an old robin standing on the 
edge of her nest, which the lopped branch had 
left disclosed, with one wing lifted and spread, 
to form a screen for her unfeathered brood as 
they lay in the nest, exposed to the glare of the 
midday beams and scorching heat. When one 
wing was weary, she would rest it, by turning 
about and lifting the other. Then her mate 
would relieye her, and let her fly off. Thus 
were the nestlings protected by this touching 
invention to form a shade, till the sun had turned 
and would not trouble them. 

There is a little poem on this subject, in the 
third volume of Miss Gould's Poems. Here is 
one about a robin that missed her brood, and 
could not find them. It is called thus : 

THE LOST NESTLINGS. 

" Have you seen my darling nestlings? " 

A mother-robin cried. 
"I cannot, cannot find them, 

Though I Ve sought them far and wide. 



MOTHER-BIRDS. 177 

" I left them well this morning, 

When I went to seek iheir food; 
But I found, upon returning, 

I 'd a nest without a brood. 

" O, have you naught to tell me," 

That will ease my aching breast, 
About my tender offspring, 

That I left within the nest? 

"I've called them in the bushes, 

And the rolling stream beside ; 
Yet they came not at my bidding; 

I 'm afraid they all have died ! " 

" I can tell you all about them," 

Said a little wanton boy, 
" For 't was I that had the pleasure, 

Your nestlings to destroy. 

" But I did not think their mother 

Her little ones would miss, 
Or ever come to hail me 

With a wailing sound like this. 

" I did not know your bosom 

Was formed to suffer wo, 
And to mourn your murdered children, 

Or I had not grieved you so. 

"I'm sorry that I 've taken 

The lives I can 't restore ; 
And this regret shall teach me 

To do the thing no more. 



178 THE GOLDEN VASE. 

'•' I ever shall remember 

The plaintive sounds I 've heard. 
Nor kill another nestling, 

To pain a mother-bird." 



POOR OLD PAUL. 

Poor old Paul ! he has lost a foot, 

And see him go hobbling along, 
With the stump laced up in that clumsy boot, 

Before the gathering throng ! 

And now, as he has to pass so many, 

And suffer the gaze of all. 
If each would only bestow a penny, 

'T were something to poor old Paul. 

His cheek is wan and his garb is thin. 

His eye is sunken and dim ; 
He looks as if the winter had been 

Making sad work with him. 

While he is trying to hide the tatter, 

Mark how his looks will fall ! 
Nobody needs to ask the matter 

With poor old, hungry Paul. 



180 THE GOLDEN VASE. 

All that he has in his dingy sack 
Is morsels of bread and meat ; 

The leavings, to burden his aged back, 
Which others refused to eat. 

So, now I am sure you will all be willing 
To part with a sum so small 

As each will spare, who offers a shilling 
To comfort him — poor old Paul ! 



THE MOUNTAIN MINSTREL. 

Patience and Hope twin sisters are ; 

And when a prosperous course Ihey steer, 
Diligence is their firm-built car, 
» And Perseverance their charioteer. 

An odd, old-fashioned sort of verse this, where- 
with to begin a story, some, perhaps, will think. 
Yet, homely as it is, does it not speak truth ? 
When attended with steady industry and perse- 
verance, Hope feeds Patience, and Patience 
crowns Hope. Without these four assistants so 
necessary to the performance of any good or 
useful work, who does, or ever will do much for 
himself or others ? But who can calculate the 
good that may be done by a single individual 
having them in full exercise and well directed, 
for the benefit of mankind and the glory of God ? 

I have a little tale to relate of a Savoyard 
shepherd-boy., that will illustrate my meaning, 
by showing how much could be effected even by 
a child, actuated by a worthy motive, and exer- 
cising the virtues recommended in my opening 



182 



THE GOLDEN VASE. 



stanza ; my key-note, as the musician would say, 
to this piece. 

Some years ago, a traveller in Savoy arrived 
at the side of a mountain, just as evening was fall- 
ing on the wild and beautiful scenery around. 
Though delighted with the view, and filled with 
veneration by the grandeur of nature's work on 
every side, he began to feel some little disquiet- 
ude, from seeing no human habitation where he 
might seek accommodation for the night. 

The broad disk of the sun had sunk behind the 
western hills ; while, like a departing father's 
blessing to his children, his light was still given 
back in a golden flush that lingered on the moun- 
tain-tops. Then, from the opposite side of the 
horizon, the full-orbed moon soon gave token of 
her rising to take his place over the world ; 
pale and solemn as a widowed mother, when the 
charge of her fatherless children is left to her 
alone. 

The occasional tinkle of a distant sheep-bell, 
or the affectionate bleat of some fleecy dam, 
quickly returned by her little one, would now 
and then reach the ear of the traveller from 
among the bushes and behind the crags, and then 
die away. To these succeeded the social chat- 
tering of some parent bird to her young, in the 
thicket ; or the whirring of the homeward-bound 



THE MOUNTAIN MINSTREL. 183 

wing of some other airy wanderer : all reminding 
the stranger that the fold, the place of his repose, 
was far away. Every living thing in nature 
seemed nearer to its home than he to his. " But 
God," thought he, " is every where ! and where 
He, my Father is, I am secure." 

Pensively he mused, and wandered on. When 
suddenly the sweet sounds of a lute touched his 
ear. Making his way past a beetling rock, and 
through a clump of shrubbery, he came out close 
to a neat little cottage pleasantly situated on the 
acclivity, and partly over hung by the broad 
branches of several old trees, that looked like 
angel-wings spread out to adorn and protect it. 

On a small patch of green in front of the cottage, 
some sheep were quietly grazing, while others lay 
ruminating, and their lambs were skipping about 
them. Just without the door sat a venerable 
couple, an aged man, and his wife seemingly of 
his own age. At their feet their good dog. Carle, 
(as they soon called him) lay calm and lovingly, 
and near them was seated a young man of inter- 
esting appearance, playing a wild mountain air 
on a lute, to which he joined his voice, in words 
which the stranger perceived to be a sun-set 
hymn. He approached the group ; and receiv- 
ing signs of hospitality and welcome, entered 



184 THE GOLDEN VASE. 

among them, and made known his wish to reach 
some inn, where he could pass the night. 

" There is none," said the good old man, in a 
mild voice, " there is none near enough for thee 
to reach it before darkness would overtake thee 
on the mountain, and the evils that lurk in dark- 
ness might beset thy way. The pass is but dif- 
ficult at best ; and it requires a foot well acquaint- 
ed with its ruggedness and windings to tread it 
safely, and to keep its route. But rest thee here, 
good sir, if the homely fare of our dwelling may 
compensate for the chance of finding better far- 
ther off*." " Yes, rest here " — said the mother, 
whose pure white mob-cap was brought close 
round a face of which the mild, benign expres- 
sion spoke a heart of equal purity ; while her 
whole figure, so simply respectable and com- 
manding, made the stranger think of the proph- 
etess, old Deborah, who " dwelt under the palm- 
tree," and some other female saints of the Bible- 
times, — " rest thee here, and take one evening's 
taste of the peace of our rural home. We are 
not so taught, as to let a way-farer, like thee, 
alone and without shelter in a strange region, pass 
from our door without offering the rest and com- 
fort our home may afibrd through the dark night 
hours. We would not have it said unto us, ' I was 
a stranger and he took me not in.' We w^ant the 



THE MOUNTAIN MINSTREL. 185 

blessing of doing some little good in the world, 
yet before we leave it ; and if T may serve thee 
by spreading our humble board before thee, come 
in and sup with us ; and then we will come out 
and sing together another evening song." 

The traveller, whom we will call by his first 
name, Ronaldo, gratefully accepted the hospitali- 
ty which seemed so much like that of the primi- 
tive Christians, and so in accordance with the 
pure spirit of the gospel. He joined this happy 
little family in their evening repast, which was 
refreshing, but simple and frugal, and, in part, 
made up of some of the fruits of their mountain. 
Supper being over, and thanks returned, the family 
and their guest resumed their places without the 
door, after the good matron had had a little time 
to remove the board, and adjust matters within. 

It has been justly remarked, that no one can 
feel unhappy while singing. It ii:iy be alike 
true, sometimes, if not alway^:', that those who 
mingle their voices together lu " psalms and 
hymns, and spiritual songs," in a social choir, 
though strangers to each other before, feel a kind 
of sympathy and harmony, and remembrance of 
associated devotional aspirations, which prevents 
their being strangers ever after ; and inspires a 
degree of kindred confidence and reliance in 
one another, which would else be unknown. 
12 



186 THE GOLDEN VASE. 

Ronaldo, though unacquainted with the words 
and air of the devotional song of the nnoun- 
taineers, had ear and tact enough to join and 
follow them in the words, while the young man 
bore him along in the tune by his exquisite 
touches on the lute. 

Conversation then ensued, and led to an inter- 
change of sentiment and a mutual confidence, of 
which the pure and single-hearted soon discover 
each other to be worthy. Stars were peeping 
out thick, and looking so near that they seemed 
ready to come down in a shower on the moun- 
tain-top ; while the moon shone clear, and the 
sound of the evening air in the rustling bushes 
and trees was heard with that of a gurgling 
fountain, spouting from a rock, and running 
down the steep in a playful stream. The young 
lutist made some remarks respecting what he 
had seen in certain distant cities, which led 
Ronaldo to ask if he had been abroad. Being 
answered in the affirmative, he felt his interest 
aroused, and his curiosity excited, and framed 
such questions and observations, that the youth 
made known something of his history, which 
follows in his words : 

" For a long time I led the life of a wandering 
minstrel. It was then that I acquired the art and 



THE MOUNTAIN MINSTREL. 187 

the habit of improvising^ or making little songs 
and ballads without premeditation ; and composing 
the words, to any subject given me, as I went 
along with the tune on my lute, which I accom- 
panied with my voice. 

" You may think it strange, sir, that I should 
leave my parents alone here, forsaken by their 
only child ; while I wandered away, pursuing the 
life of a vagrant among strange people, and in 
places wholly unlike my native region, so pure 
and healthy for the body and the soul, and en- 
tered into cities where vice prowls in the streets, 
and watches in its dens, seeking for victims ; like 
the mountain-wolves for the kid and the lamb. 
But when I have given you a brief sketch of my 
life, the cloud which has come over me in your 
mind will, I think, pass off, and let you behold 
me in a clearer and better light. You will knoyv 
me better. You have not yet even learnt my 
name. My parents, you perceive, call me only, 
' my son,' or ' my child,' speaking to me ; and 
speaking of me, they do but change the my to 
our. 

" I will give my little story in verse, as it will 
at once show you my manner of extemporary 
composition, and let you see the outline of my 
course of life in fewer words than it could be 
given as a narrative." His fingers were already 



188 THE GOLDEN VASE. 

on the strings of his lute, and he sang to it the 
following ballad : 

" On our mountain of Savoy, 
In the shadow of a rock, 
Once I sat, a shepherd- boy. 
Watching o'er my father's flock. 

" We 'd a happy cottage-home, 
Peaceful as the sparrow's nest, 
Where at evening we could come 
From our roamings to our rest. 

" I'd a minstrel's voice and ear; 
I could whistle, pipe and sing ; 
While I, roving, seemed to hear 
Music stir in every thing. 

" But misfortune, like a blast, 
Swift upon my father rushed ; 
From our dwelling we were cast — 
At a stroke our peace was crushed. 

" All we had was seized for debt. 
In the sudden overthrow 
Even my fond, fleecy pet. 
My white cosset, too, must go ! 

" Then I wandered sad and lone. 
Where I 'd once a flock to feed ; 
All the treasure now my own. 
Was my simple pipe of reed. 



THE MOUNTAIN MINSTREL. 189 

" But a noble, pitying friend, 

Who had seen me sadly stray, 
Made me to his lute attend ; 
And he taught me how to play. 

" Then his lute to me he gave j 
And abroad he bade me roam, 
Till the earnings I could save 
Would redeem our cottage-home. 

" Glad, his counsel straight I took — 
I received his gift with joy, 
All my former ways forsook, 
And became a minstrel-boy. 

" With my mountain airs to sing, 
Forward then I roamed afar, 
Sweeping still the tuneful string ; 
Making hope my leading-star. 

" In the hamlets where I 've gone, 

Groups would gather, music-bound. 
In the cities then I 've drawn 
Listeners, till my hopes were crowned. 

" Ever saving as I earned, 

I of one dear object dreamed ; 
Then I to my mount returned, 
And our cottage-home redeemed. 

" Time has wiped away our tears; 
Here we dwell together blest; 
All our troubles, griefs, and fears 
I have played and sung to rest. 



190 THE GOLDEN VASE. 

" Now I have one object dear; 
Zara, of our men main -side, 
Soon to be a daughter here, 
Soon to be the minstrel's bride ! 

" Here my aged parents live 

Free from want, and toil, and cares; 
All the bliss that earth can give 
Deem they, in this home, is theirs. 

"Life's night-shades fast o'er them creep; 
They have all their wrongs forgiven ; 
Now they've but to fall asleep. 
In their cot to wake in heaven. 

"Gentle friend, dost thou inquire 

What 's the lineage whence I came ? 
Jesse is my shepherd-sire ; 
David Jesse is my name." 

The minstrers voice was huslied, and his 
fingers withdrawn from the strings of his lute. 
Ronaldo was too much affected to offer any re- 
mark. The evening had flown away, and the 
hour of retirement had come. Carle was bidden 
to his place of rest, and of guardianship, near the 
sheep-fold ; and the family, with their visiter, 
went into the cottage, where they all kneeled 
down, and the good old man, in mild, silvery 
tones of voice, commended each separately to 
the care of the great Shepherd of Israel, for the 



THE MOUNTAIN MINSTREL. 191 

night, and for the rest of life. Ronaldo was then 
shown to a neat little apartment, divided off from 
David's by a thin partition ; and just wide enough 
for him to make his way to a narrow cot-bed, 
and find a place to deposit his hat, his staff, and 
the pieces of apparel, which he wished to lay 
aside. He laid himself down to rest; and, while 
the pure mountain air poured in, like the breath 
of health, with the clear light of the moon, 
through his small open window, before sleep 
settled on his senses, fell into a train of thought 
almost like a waking dream, inspired by the 
novelty of his situation, and the virtue and 
beauty of character which this little humble 
habitation contained, as the casket holds the 
diamonds. 

" And here," thought he, " are some who 
will be numbered among the most pure and 
precious, when God makes up his jewels. And 
in that day, how will the hospitality, the faith, 
hope, and charity, all the piety of thousands of 
splendid mansions be outshone by those of this 
simple cottage ! 

" O thou, who didst these mountains rear, 
And hang the stars above, 
Endow me, like thy children here. 
With lowliness and love ! 



192 THE GOLDEN VASE. 

"And if they need one prayer of mine 
To rise for them to thee, 
Reward them with thy gifts divine 
For kindness shown to me ! " 

After this ejaculation, Ronaldo sunk into a 
refreshing sleep. When he awoke in the morn- 
ing, he found the cottagers were all up, and had 
breakfast prepared ; that he might not be de- 
tained by waiting for it, nor depart fasting. When 
this was over, and they had mutually invoked 
blessings, he bade farewell to the happy family, 
and went forward on his botanizing excursion. 

" My good wife," said the aged cottager, " I 
do n't know why it is ; but I feel an unusual peace 
and joy in my heart since our visiter left us. I 
am not sure that we have not, like Abraham in 
his tent, entertained an angel unawares." 



THE STOVE AND GRATE SETTER. 

Old winter is coming to play off his tricks — 
To make your ears tingle, your fingers to numb ; 

So I, with my trowel, new mortar, and bricks, 
To guard you against him, already am come. 

An ounce of prevention in time, I have found. 
Is worth pounds of remedy taken too late. 

A proof that the sense of my maxim is sound. 
Will shine where I place a stove, furnace, or 
grate. 

The summer leaves, now whirling fast from the 

trees. 

On autumn's chill blast are tossed, yellow and 

sere ; 

And soon, with the breath of his nostrils to freeze 

Each thing he can puff at, will winter be here ! 

But hardly he '11 dare to steal in at the door, 
Your elbows to sting, with his keen, cutting air, 

And chill you with ague, where I 've been before. 
To set the defence I to-day can prepare. 



194 



THE GOLDEN VASE. 



And when he comes blustering on from the north, 
To give you blue faces, and shakes by the chin, 

You '11 find what the craft of your mason was 
worth, 
As you, from abroad, to your parlor step in. 

For all will around be so pleasant and warm ; 
Your hearth bright and cheering, your coal in 
a glow ; 
You '11 not heed the winds whistling up the rude 
storm. 
To sift o'er your dwelling its clouds-full of 
snow. 

You '11 then think of me, how I handled, to-day. 
The cold stone and iron, the brick and the 
lime ; 

And all, but the surer foundation to lay 

For comfort to you, in the drear winter time. 

I lay you, against this old winter, a charm 

To make him, at least, keep himself out of 
doors. 
'T would melt, should he enter, his cold hand and 
arm. 
When, loud for admission, he threatens and 
roars. 



THE STOVE AND GRATE SETTER. 195 

If gratitude then should come warming your heart, 
As peaceful you sit by your warm fire-side ; 

Perhaps it may teach you some good to impart 
To those where the gifts you enjoy are denied. 

For He, in whose favor all blessedness is, 

And out of whose kingdom no treasure is sure, 
Was poor when on earth ; and the poor still are 
his; 
His charge to his friends is, " Remember the 
'poor 



!">•> 



Nor would his disciple be higher than he. 

Who once on the dwellings of men, for his 
bread, 
In lowliness wrought ; but contentedly we 

Will work by the light our great Master has 
shed. 



THE LADDER PIE. 

" Ho ! what a name ! A ladder pie ! Who 
ever heard of such a dish ? " cries one. " I 've 
read mother's cookery-book many a time ; but I 
never found such a pie as that in it." 

" And I," says another, " have heard of all 
sorts of ladders, from the one that the caterpillar 
makes herself to pass from the tree to the ground, 
up to that which Jacob saw in his dream, when 
he slept on his pillow of stone ; but I never knew 
of one fit to be served up in a pie." 

No, my young friends, and you will probably 
never find one, by any of your visits to the 
kitchen, to inquire into the subject of the dinner 
elect, when the cook wishes you at school, or in 
some better employment than peeping under the 
dish-covers, or scenting out the forth-coming 
repast in its preparation state. Yet such a dish 
has really been cooked, and set on a noble gen- 
tleman's dinner-table. You shall hear when and 
how it happened. 

Henri, duke de Montmorenpi, was a young 



THE LADDER PIE. 197 

French nobleman belonging to one of the most 
illustrious families in all Europe, during the 
early part of the seventeenth century, and in the 
reign of Louis XIII. He was a descendant of a 
celebrated constable of France, Mathieu de 
Montmorenci ; who married, for his first wife, a 
daughter of Henry I., of England ; and, for his 
second, the widow of Louis VI., of France. 

Henri was a young man of high mental quali- 
ties and attainments, with strong patriotic senti- 
ments, and noble virtues. At the early age of 
eighteen, he was appointed admiral of France. 
He fulfilled the duties of his office honorably ; 
and, in a time when France was agitated by 
strong political and religious differences, defend- 
ed what he conceived to be the just cause, and 
thought most for the real welfare of his country, 
with great valor. 

But, in so doing, he became necessarily in- 
volved in a rebellion against the proceedings 
of Cardinal Richelieu, then prime minister of 
France, and the most influential character in the 
kingdom ; though a haughty, unprincipled, and 
intriguing man. Bent on power, Richelieu cared 
not what or whom he sacrificed to compass his 
purpose. A civil war was raging ; and Henri, to 
inspirit his men, threw himself into the ranks 
against the forces of Richelieu's adherents. He 



198 THE GOLDEN VASE. 

was wounded and taken prisoner ; and through 
the influence of the cardinal condemned by the 
parliament of Toulouse, to suffer death on the 
scaffold. The place of his confinement was a 
fortress in Leytoure, a city originally built by a 
Roman colony, on the summit of a mountain, in 
a southern province of France. 

Not many years ago, a traveller through that 
part of the country, arriving at the base of the 
mountain on whose top Leytoure stands, occu- 
pying the space of more than half a mile, left his 
carriage below, and ascended the mountain on 
foot. 

In his walks about this little airy city, he met 
another gentleman, \vho, perceiving him to be a 
stranger, politely proffered his services as guide 
and cicerone, to conduct him about the place, 
and point out such objects as might be of the 
greatest interest to a stranger. 

After giving a brief history of the place, and 
some of its most remarkable events from the 
time of its first establishment, he led the visiter 
to the brow of the mountain, where stood the 
ruins of an ancient castle. 

" It was in this castle," said he, " that the 
amiable and brave, but unfortunate Henri, duke 
de Montmorenci, was confined under sentence 
of death through the wicked influence of the 



THE LADDER PIE. 199 

Cardinal Richelieu, after the battle of Castel- 
naudaci, in 1632. 

" During his imprisonment in this fortress, the 
ladies of the place, feeling a just abhorrence of 
the character of his enemy, and deep commiser- 
ation for the young captive, resolved, if possible, 
to break a wire in the cage, and let the bird 
escape. But this benevolent work was one that 
brought all their ingenuity and wits into lively 
exercise. 

" They met in conclave ; and, after due delib- 
eration, fixed upon a plan which seemed most 
likely to succeed. Assembled in secret, they 
united their forces, and busily employed their 
fingers in braiding a great many yards of strong 
silken cord. Tliis they knotted into loops, or 
bars, so as to form a sort of ladder, long enough 
to reach from the prisoner's window nearly to 
the ground, and wide enough for a man's foot to 
insert itself in the loops. 

" The silk being strong and soft, the ladder 
was sufficient to support a great weight, while it 
was capable of being compressed into a small 
compass. Having completed it, the ladies coiled 
it up close and neatly, and laid it between two 
coats of pastry, in a large dish, and had it baked, 
so as to look like nothing more or less than a 
generous pie for the dinner-table. They then 



200 



THE GOLDEN VASE. 



asked permission of the keeper to send it as a 
present to the noble prisoner. The request was 
granted, and the pie received with many thanks, 
by the young captive, who thought it contained 
nothing but the wherewith to gratify his taste 
and appetite. 

" But, when it was set before him on his table, 
and he attempted to help himself, by breaking 
the crust, he was transfixed with astonishment, 
which was only equalled by the gratitude he 
felt towards the ingenious and kind projectors of 
this plan for his deliverance, on seeing, instead 
of a piece of savory meat, the loop of a long, 
silken ladder brought up on the point of his fork. 
A rarity, indeed, he thought it ; and never had 
his eye beheld a pie with such delight before, or 
one so much to his taste, as this. He concealed 
the ruse of his fair friends between himself and 
his valet, until a proper hour to try its effect. 

" In the dead of the night, when silence and 
darkness brooded over the mountain, the ladder 
was suspended from the window of the prisoner's 
apartment ; and Montmorenci and his valet pre- 
pared themselves to escape. . The servant was 
to descend first, and his master to follow. 

" But hardly had the former began to descend, 
when, excited and agitated by the thought of the 
daring enterprise, he lost his hold, his foot 



THE LADDER PIE. 20l 

slipped, and down he fell on the hard pavement, 
breaking his thigh bone and injuring other parts 
of his body by the fall. 

"His cries alarmed the sentinel, who, hasten- 
ing to the spot, detected the plot, and had the 
prisoner placed beyond all hope of escape. 
Soon after this, the unfortunate Henri was con- 
ducted to Toulouse, where he ended his days 
by the execution of the sentence of death on the 
scaffold." 

Here the stranger finished his melancholy- 
recital. The traveller turned from the ruined 
castle with feelings of sadness, as if the events 
of the tale to which he had been listening had 
just taken place. And here our short story must 
also close. This is a sorrowful termination ; yet 
as it is but true simple history that I am giving, 
I cannot, according to the manner of writers of 
fiction, so order its occurrences as to bring about 
such results in the end, as the kind feelings and 
wishes of my readers might lead them to desire 
and anticipate. I fear they will, some of them, 
be ready to say, that the dish I have set before 
them for their entertainment, leaves but a bitter 
taste behind ; that sadness, misery, and disap- 
pointment, are associated with the remembrance 
of the Ladder Pie. 

The truth of the story, at its close, is indeed 
13 



202 THE GOLDEN VASE. 

painful ; but the moral to be drawn from it may 
be useful. Let none flatter themselves too much 
from a fair prospect, in any undertaking. And 
let all remember, that by one false step, or care- 
less hold, we may involve ourselves, or our 
friends, and perhaps both, in hopeless ruin, if not 
by the loss of life or a limb, yet by that of peace 
or innocence, beyond recovery. 

Young Montmorengi, with all his moral worth 
and splendid natural endowments, had been nur- 
tured under a false system of education, which 
had led him to employ his talents in an unholy 
cause ; while it deluded him into the sincere 
belief that in this he was doing God service. 
He lived in the time of the cruel oppression and 
persecution exercised against the Huguenots, or 
Protestants, in Europe. It was his victorious 
achievements over them and their cause, that 
deceived him into the belief that he might come 
off as valiantly in his enterprises to break up the 
foundations of the artful Richelieu's power, and 
thus, at last, fatally betrayed him. 

The expression of sadness, which I fancy I can 
see in the faces of some of my young friends, 
after perusing the last page of the story related 
to the stranger at Leytoure, makes me unwilling 
to leave them with such a cloud on their bright 



THE LADDER PIE. 203 

faces, without attempting to remove it. I will, 
therefore, as a sort of offset to the tale of the 
unfortunate adventurer, tell them a lighter story 
of an imagined dialogue which took place be- 
tween myself and a little winged adventurer, a 
few minutes ago, as I viewed her on a chimney- 
top close by, from my window, while sitting at 
my table, over the concluding lines of the " Lad- 
der Pie," reluctant to let it end so painfully, and 
with my pen up, alike loth to let it add any 
thing fictitious, or come down only to set the 
period. I hope, too, that by giving this as an 
enlivener, I shall also give what will be found to 
embody another moral. 

THE DOVE ON THE CHIMNEY. 

I saw a while dove on a black chimney-top ; 

And I said, " Little dove, shouldst thou happen to drop, 

By carelessly setting thine innocent foot, 

Down in the dark region of smoke and of soot, 

In what an unseemly and pitiful plight, 

Would that snowy bosom return to the light!" 

" O, fear not for me ! " said the beautiful dove ; 

" The black, narrow pit I am walking above 

Shall not have my bosom to ruffle and soil, 

Nor these silver pinions to prison and foil. 

For, while round its mouth my small feet pad about, 

I 've wings, should they shp, and can soon spread them out. 



204 THE GOLDEN VASE. 

'' I sometimes you know, take a walk in the street, 

To spy out and pick little morsels to eat ; 

And oft reconnoitre your door-yard with care, 

While close to the ground comes my breast smooth and 

fair. 
When I rise, then, and light by your clear window-pane, 
Does e'er my white plumage come rough, or with stain ? " 

" Ah, no ! " I replied, " and thy virtue innate 
Preserves thee without in so comely a state ; 
An eye ever watchful, thy thoughts on alert, 
Thus keep thy pure vesture unsullied, unhurt; 
As pureness of soul is the amulet sure, 
Man'^ life as a robe keeping comely and pure." 

•' It still," said the bright little dove, " would not do 
For our careless ways to be copied by you. 
A spot on my plumes, air and rain would efface; 
A feather deranged, my own beak could replace ; 
While man, does he get by one slip but a stain, 
Will find it a mark that must always remain ! " 



THE DISOBEDIENT SKATERS. 

Said William to George, " It is new year's day ! 
And now for the pond, and the merriest play ! 
So, on with your cap, and away, away, 

Off for a frolic and slide ! 
Be quick, be quick, if you would not be chid 
For doing what father and mother forbid ; 
And under your coat let the skates be hid ; 

Then over the ice we '11 glide ! " 

They 're up — and they 're off. On their run- 
away feet 
They fasten the skates, when, away they fleet, 
Far over the pond, and beyond retreat. 

Unconscious of danger near. 
But, lo ! the ice is beginning to bend. 
It cracks ! it cracks ! and their feet descend ! 
To whom can they look as a helper — a friend ? 

Their faces are pale with fear. 



206 THE GOLDEN VASE. 

In their flight to the pond, they had caught the eye 
Of a neighboring peasant, who, lingering nigh. 
Aware of their danger and hearing their cry. 

Now hastens to give them aid. 
As home they are brought all dripping and cold, 
To all, who their piteous plight behold, 
The worst of the story is plainly told — 

Their parents were disobeyed ! 



GARAFILIA. 

Garafilia was a little Greek girl of uncom- 
mon beauty and loveliness, a native of the island 
of Ipsara, in the Mediterranean Sea. 

Ipsara, or Psara, as it is sometimes spelt, is a 
small heart-shaped island of the Grecian Archi- 
pelago, about five miles and a half long, as many- 
broad, and lying seven miles northwest of Scio. 

The haughty Turks, who had made themselves 
lords of Greece, ruled with such cruel despotism, 
that, to escape their tyranny, and the galling 
yoke of Mohammedan bondage, a company of 
Greeks, about a hundred years ago, fled to this 
island, and colonized it. 

At the time of the late desperate, but success- 
ful struggle of Greece for freedom from Mussul- 
man sway, the history of which is, or may easily 
be, well-known to every American reader, Ipsara 
had upwards of six thousand inhabitants. 

The valiant hero, Canaris, so distinguished 
for patriotism and bravery in the Greek re vol u- 



208 THE GOLDEN VASE. 

tion, and whose story will be found in that of his 
country, was an Ipsariot. 

But the melancholy fate of Ipsara and its in- 
habitants, cannot be told or heard without melt- 
ing the heart with pity, and chilling the veins 
with horror. 

In the year 1824, the Turks, who in their 
cruel and barbarous fury seemed determined 
not to leave a Greek alive ; having plunged their 
bloody yhattagan (sabre) into thousands of vic- 
tims, invaded and took the island of Ipsara. 
None of its six thousand inhabitants escaped 
death by the yhattagan, but a few females, whom 
the ^Turks secreted, (here and there one,) 
from each other, to sell or keep them as slaves ; 
and about six hundred of the people, who with- 
drew to a mountain-fortress, and fought, till they 
finally perished beneath its ruins. 

In sacking the town, one of the Turkish sol- 
diers, eager for booty, opened an oven, thinking 
some valuable treasures might be concealed 
there. But, to his utter astonishment, instead of 
gold or gems, he beheld the sweet, cherub-face, 
and softly-beaming eyes of a little girl ! Her 
hair fell in luxuriant clusters of curls upon her 
neck and shoulders ; and by this he seized her, 
and drew her forth from her hiding-place with 
one hand, while the other grasped the yhattagan, 



GARAFILIA. 209 

which was already raised to bury its point in her 
heart. 

As the light shone fitfully on her countenance, 
and the singular beauty of the whole appearance 
of a child apparently ten years old, the assassin 
was awe-struck ; his arm fell powerless by his 
side before this little spiritual-looking creature, 
which for a moment seemed to him a vision ; 
and he dared not accomplish his murderous 
design. 

This lovely child was Garafilia, my young 
heroine. She had seen her father murdered, 
and her mother seized and carried off to be sold 
as a slave. All her friends had perished, or 
been made captives ; and here, where her un- 
happy mother had left her concealed, or where 
she had hidden, was she found alone, to meet her 
fate. 

Hard-hearted as the Turk was in other 
respects, he could not nerve himself to slay this 
beautiful and innocent little being. He resolved 
to secrete her from his fellow-soldiers, and to 
carry her to Smyrna, to be his own slave. Her 
mother had already been borne away on board a 
vessel, for the purpose of being sold into slavery. 

Arriving with his captive in his own city of 
Smyrna, the Turk strolled slowly along the 
public business street, where the unhappy Ipsa- 



210 THE GOLDEN VASE. 

riot widow was sold and separated forever from 
her child. 

The heart of Garafilia was full to despair, and 
almost to breaking, with her present sorrows 
and the prospect of her future destiny. The 
horror of her situation strengthened her for one 
mighty effort. 

Attentively eyeing ihe groups of passengers of 
every description and nation, as they passed by, 
in this strange and terrible place, she glanced at 
one individual who fastened her attention. By 
his benign countenance and manner, she took 
him to be a Christian ; while the appearance of 
his dress, led her to believe that he was a man of 
wealth, and able to purchase her. 

In an instant she sprang forth towards him, 
and clasping his knees, fell upon her own, and 
fastened him to the spot ; while she turned her 
full hazel eyes beamimg with light, and swim- 
ming in tears, up to his ; entreating him to buy 
her for his slave, and save her from the mur- 
derer of her family. The story of her sorrows 
was told in few words ; while the abundant 
clusters of natural curls in which her bright 
auburn hair fell shining and playing over her 
smooth white neck and shoulders, her fair com- 
plexion, sweet expression, and delicate form, 
made her seem no less vision-like to the young 



GARAFILIA. 211 

stranger, than she had appeared to the Turk, 
when he drew her from her covert in her deso- 
lated island-home. Hazel eyes and bright brown 
hair, and a complexion like hers, being extremely- 
rare among the Greeks, are considered as much 
more beautiful as they are uncommon in that 
country. 

The first appeal of the little suppliant was 
enough. The benevolent stranger needed noth- 
ing farther to fix his resolution to rescue this 
tender lamb from the paw of the ruthless lion. 
The ear of an American, if he is worthy of his 
country, whatsoever land he may be in, is never 
deaf to the cry of distress when he has the power 
to relieve it. 

This stranger, whom Garafilia had fixed her 
eye upon in the multitude, as the most humane 
of all in appearance, was a young American 
gentleman, a native of Boston, then a resident 
merchant in Smyrna. 

He knew that to effect the purchase of the 
child, he must seem indifferent about it before 
her owner. He engaged in a careless way with 
the Turk, in conversing on the subject, conceal- 
ing his feelings of compassion for the little suf- 
ferer, and sauntering with a heavy step, till he 
led them to his counting-room. Here he direct- 
ed his broker to sccin-e the purchase ; and ihe 
bargain was soon closed. 



212 THE GOLDEN VASE. 

He now resolved to send the child to his 
friends in Boston ; that she might enjoy the ben- 
efit which the best schools and other advantages 
of education in America could afford. 

An American merchant-ship being at Sniyrna, 
and a friend of his about to return in her, he 
gave his little Ipsariot orphan in charge to him, 
as her kind guardian till he could yield her safe- 
ly up to his own family in Boston. This office 
the friend executed with fidelity. He gave up 
his charge, at the end of the voyage, to the father 
of her purchaser, and others of the family who 
received her as one of them. 

Her beauty won their admiration, and her love- 
liness drew and twined the affections of their 
hearts strongly about her. All who knew her, 
became her friends. She was placed at school, 
where the uncommon talents which she display- 
ed, and the rapid advancement she made in all 
branches of education to which she applied her- 
self, were almost as surprising as the story of her 
life was singular. As she increased in stature 
and years, the graces of her person and the 
beauties of her mind unfolded together, to the 
wonder and delight of all who knew her. 

But the story of Garafilia's eventful life was 
soon and abruptly brought to an end. Death fol- 
lows in all countries, and hurling his arrows, 
never misses his aim. 



GARAFILIA. 213 

In the beginning of the year 1830, Garafilia 
took a cold, which brought on a rapid consump- 
tion. Just as she had entered her fifteenth year, 
this lovely little foreigner from the far off isle of 
the sea, closed her beautiful eyes forever to the 
light of time, and was laid at rest in an Ameri- 
can tomb ; while her pure, sweet spint, as we 
trust, had entered that blessed mansion where 
there is no distinction of nation ; but all are of 
the kingdom of heaven. 

Garafilia's looks have been alluded to ; but the 
graces of her form and motions, the sweetness of 
expression in her features, the soft, melodious 
tones of her voice, and the beauty of the 
thoughts she uttered, can never be described. 
These were but the outward manifestations of the 
pure spirit within that fair, but frail tenement of 
clay, as it was, like the young bird of paradise in 
the shell, pluming its wings for an early, upward 
flight. 

When Garafilia arrived in this country, she 
was dressed in the style of an American child. 
This was her usual mode of dress. But she 
occasionally wore the Turkish costume ; some- 
times ihe Greek. The former consisted of a 
loose silk tunic, confined at the waist by a girdle ; 
the sleeves tight down to the elbow, and loose 
and open below ; pantaloons of silk gathered in 



214 THE GOLDEN VASE. 

bands above the shoe ; aqd on her head, set a lit- 
tle on one side, a small red cloth cap, richly em- 
broidered with gold, with a rich tassel of dark 
blue silk depending from its side. Around this 
cap she wound a red silk handkerchief, so that it 
had the appearance of the turban. 

Her portrait was taken, I think in each cos- 
tume, the American and the Turkish. After her 
decease an engraving from one of them was sent 
to me, with a request that I would write a poem 
to accompany it. I wrote the following, supposed 
to be the words of the speaking Picture : 

GARAFILIA'S PICTURE. 

To yon, whose tears could freely flow 

At Garafilia's tale of wo, 

I come her living looks to show, 

And to your hearts to speak. 
When called from earth, she left behind 
Her semblance, that it might remind 
Her friends so generous, good and kind, 

Of the poor orphan Greek. 

In me behold the eyes that saw 

The cruel Turk his sabre draw; 

When wrung with grief, and chilled with awe, 

Poor Garafiba stood, 
Where he, with aspect fierce and dread, 
In pride held high his lurbaned head; 
And rushed with savage haste to shed 

Her father's vital blood. 



GARAFILIA. 215 

This ear has heard the dying groan, 
The widow's shriek — her helpless moan; 
And cries of orphans left alone, 

Mid ruthless foes; who came 
With barbarous looks in hostile bands, 
With gleaming blades in blood-stained hands, 
Their parents slew, o'erran the lands 

And drove them from their home. 

This youthful cheek has blanched with fear, 
And, marble-like, scarce felt the tear 
Roll down it, as the Turk came near 

To seize his helplcvss prey; 
And from the widow's aching heart, 
Her dear and only child to part; 
Then bore them off to Smyrna's mart, 

To wait the market-day. 

This little head has ached, and found 
No rest but on the chilling ground, 
While the sad mother, pale and bound, 

A hapless slave was sold. 
These lips, with thirst and hunger dried, 
One parting kiss were then denied, 
As she forever turned aside, 

Forced from her child for gold. 

But when the good American 

Had bargained with the Mussulman 

For Garafilia, then began 

To dawn a brighter day ; 
He made the purchase but to be 
Her friend, her guardian, and to see 
The little sufferer, blest and free, 

Wipe all her tears away. 



216 THE GOLDEN VASE. 

Protected by a careful hand, 
He sent her to this happy land, 
To let her tender mind expand 

Beneath Cokinibia's sky. 
Then on her mild and modest foce, 
The placid smile resumed its place; 
Her goodness, gentleness, and grace 

Delighted ev^ery eye. 

Then did her little guileless tongue. 
To which the foreign accent clung, 
With melting sweetness, spoke or sung, 

The gratitude make known, 
Wherewith her tender heart o'erflowed 
Towards Heaven, and to the friends who showed 
Such kindness; and to whom ^he owed 

Her path with blessings strewn. 

But still, of Garafilia's heart 
The dearest ties were torn apart ; 
She thought of Smyrna's awful mart. 

And of her mother's woes, 
When sold and driven, she knew not where ! 
She thought of native land and air, 
Of her dear, dying father's prayer. 

And of his cruel foes. 

And, as a flower the storm has torn 
Up by the root, when plucked, and borne 
Beneath the shelter, to be worn 

Upon its owner's breast, 
'T was Garafilia's early doom 
While yet in freshest morning bloom, 
To wither for an early tomb, 

Where now she lies at rest. 



GARAFILIA. 217 

" Ashes to ashes ! " hath been said 

With reverence, o'er the meek one's head, 

And the last tear has long been shed 

From Garafilia's eye. 
For the pure angels came to bear 
Her spirit t'loni this world of care 
To bright and blissful regions, where 

She lives, no more to die. 

Thus, while her soul in heaven is blest, 
Her form within the grave at rest, 
Me h;is she left as her bequest. 

The dearest she could make, 
To those whose kindness she had proved, 
Till from their tender care removed; 
And snie the picture will be loved 

For Garafilia's sake. 

This affecting and true history of Garafilia is 
written for the little girls of America ; that they 
may learn to prize the blessings of their native 
country, and be grateful to the kind Providence 
who has given them birth and a home in a land 
free from the evils that filled the first years of 
the young and innocent Ipsariot. 



14 



THE CHILD'S HYMN TO SPRING. 

Thou lovely and glorious spring, 
Descended to us from the sky, 

I praise thee for coming to bring 
Such beautiful things to my eye ! 

For, bearing thine arms full of flowers 
To strew o'er the earth hast thou come, 

Adorning this low world of ours 

With brightness like that of thy home. 

And thou hast brought back the gay birds, 
Their songs full of gladness to sing — 

To give in their musical words, 

Their sweet little anthems to spring. 

The roots hast thou watered and fed ; 

The leaves hast thou opened anew ; 
The violet lifts its fair head, 

And seems as 't were praising thee too. 



219 



The hills thou hast made to rejoice, 
And all the young buds to unfold ; 

The cowslips spring up at thy voice, 
And dot the green meadows with gold. 

The brooks, o'er the pebbles that run, 
Are sounding thy praise as they go ; 

The grass points its blades to the sun. 
And thanks thee for making them grow. 

The rush and the delicate reed 

Are waving in honor of thee ; 
The lambkins are learning to feed ; 

The honey-cups filled for the bee. 

The butterfly 's out on the wing ; 

The odors are out on the breeze ; 
And sweet is the breath of the spring, 

That comes through the blossoming trees. 

The forest, the grove, and the vine, 

In festival vestures are clad, 
To show that a presence like thine 

Is making them grateful and glad. 

The earth and the waters are bright, 
The heavens are beaming and mild ; 

And O ! with unmingled delight 

Thy charms fill the heart of the child ! 



220 THE GOLDEN VASE. 

Sweet spring ! 't was my Maker made thee, 
And sent thee to brighten my days ! 

Thine aim is his glory, I see ; 

I '11 join thee in giving him praise. 



SABBATH SCHOOL HYMN. 

Our Father, who art throned above, 

As heaven's eternal King, 
So high, thou still from earth dost love 

The praise a child may sing. 

Then, bow and lend a listening ear. 

While we, an infant throng. 
Unite our feeble voices here 

To lift the grateful song. 

We bless thee for thy goodness known ; 

We bless thee for our trust. 
That still thou 'It guard us from thy throne, 

Though we are in the dust. 

With thanks for all thy kindness, Lord, 

We give thee highest praise. 
That we possess thy sacred Word, 

And holy Sabbath days. 



222 THE GOLDEN VASE. 

A Saviour by that blessed book 
We find, who loved us so, 

He laid his glory by, and took 
An infant's form below. 

He died but for the sins of those, 
Who 'd be through him forgiven ; 

Then on the Sabbath morn he rose 
To lead our hearts to heaven ! 



MY LITTLE BOOK'S NEW YEAR'S WISH 
TO ITS READERS. 

Our fleeting days so swiftly fly 
That you, my gentle friends, and I, 
In this new morning, see appear 
The firstling of another year. 

Now, as I know you wish me well. 
For songs I sing, for tales I tell, 
I, too, must wish, and do my best 
That you may through tliis year be blest. 

I have no sweetmeats, cakes, or toys, 
As gifts for hopeful girls and boys ; 
But look in me, and you shall find 
Both food and playthings for the mind. 

You know the present hour alone 
Is all that you can call your own ; 
That time, forever on the wing. 
Is changing every earthly thing. 



224 THE GOLDEN VASE. 

And should His hand who lent you breath, 
Seal up your childish lips in death, 
I would not think I e'er had given 
Aught to unfit the soul for heaven. 

But if your days to age extend. 
Regard me as your early friend ; 
And oft in memory may you look, 
With fondness on your little book. 

I then may be abused and torn. 
My words effaced, my covers worn; 
But, what I've done to mend the heart 
Preserve, as my immortal part. 

Resolve, with every rising sun. 
That something learnt, or something done 
Before he sets, shall gild your way. 
Till years are lost in endless day. 



612 



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